The Sandman
by Swarovski
Summary: "Mac, sweetheart, we've blindfolded you." What happens when an insomniac meets the Sandman? On the trail of a serial killer, Mac and the team stumble across something much more sinister, putting everyone's lives at risk. An angsty action adventure love story revolving around 100 million dollars worth of cocaine.
1. The rising world of waters dark and deep

**Disclaimer**: All CSI:NY characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker and CBS.

**Author's note**: Set four months after 'Snow Day' (season 3), this story is slightly AU, so no Peyton or 333 stalker. As with my previous stories, this is completely OTT, but hopefully not too OOC. The ending will also be _very_ happy, though you'll doubt it along the way. There'll be three M-rated Smacked chapters.

_"In dreams they fearful precipices tread,  
__Or, shipwrecked, labor to some distant shore,  
__Or, in dark churches, walk among the dead,  
__They wake with horror, and dare sleep no more."  
_- John Dryden

Welcome to the world of The Sandman. Read on at your own peril …

* * *

**Chapter 1 - The rising world of waters dark and deep**

* * *

_"The rising world of waters __dark and deep,  
__Won from the void and formless infinite."  
_- John Milton

_Something was very wrong._

He'd realized this already before he surfaced into consciousness, gasping for air as if he'd been close to drowning. He'd had an odd sensation of drifting weightlessly through murky water, at the mercy of swirling currents tugging at his arms and legs. He'd even felt his last breath leave his body as he was dragged down into the gloomy depths by a powerful undertow. Then it dawned on him that the surge and swell he heard was his own blood pounding in his ears. As his head slowly began to clear, the dark tide rolled back, leaving him stranded on a concrete shore.

For a while he lay with his eyes clenched shut, trying to recall what exactly had happened to him. His body felt drained and his mind sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. He sensed that his forehead was resting against the floor, that his legs were flung apart, that his wrists were drawn together behind his back. His shoulders and arms throbbed dully, making him wonder briefly if he'd broken any bones when he'd been thrown to the ground. Yet this was still nothing against the white-hot agony spiking through his head.

After what seemed like an eternity, his ears finally began to register the world around him. He could already smell the briny air coming off the water, and now he heard the piercing cries of seagulls as well. Somewhere, a background chorus of crickets and katydids were chirruping loudly enough to wake the dead. Above their incessant din, a breeze rustled through tree branches, and a songbird tweeted hopefully a few times before receiving a distant reply. Then a balmy gust of wind swept into the room, fanning over the back of his neck and scraping a flurry of dry leaves across the concrete floor.

_How the hell had he ended up here?_

Gradually he picked out the murmur of voices around him, a muted conversation being conducted in urgent, breathless undertones. Yet when he tried to open his eyes to see who it was, he felt an unexpected tightness across his face. With a frown, he shifted his head against the floor, slightly nudging the fabric stretched over his eyelids. A sudden jolt ricocheted back into his head like a lightning bolt, making him draw a sharp breath. Sweat broke out on his brow as he fought back an overwhelming urge to throw up and pass out at the same time.

_So that's what's wrong. _Now he remembered.

His awakening hadn't gone unnoticed. A hand that had been resting on his hip suddenly slipped away. Then he felt it settle on his forehead instead, its fingers threading gently into his hair.

"I think he's coming around."

Although he didn't recognize the soft whisper, he was fairly certain a woman had just spoken.

He let her reassuring hand on his face soothe him while he lay waiting for his heaving stomach to settle. He vaguely recalled – and immediately regretted - the apple he'd eaten on the boat earlier that morning, already a lifetime ago.

"Are you sure?"

The hushed response seemed familiar, but he still couldn't place the man's voice.

With a low groan he rolled off his shoulder and onto his back, thereby pinning his aching arms beneath him. Bracing himself against the pain, he paused to draw in his breath in a few shallow gasps. Then he dragged his foot across the floor to raise his knee, trying in vain to get comfortable on the concrete.

"Well, that's _good_, isn't it?" The woman's whisper sounded hopeful.

Now he felt her slender hand slide under his back to lace her fingers through his. When he curled his fingertips hesitantly against hers, she responded by running her thumb along his wedding band, instantly letting him know who she was.

He couldn't make out the _sotto voce_ reply to her question.

"What do you mean, '_yes and no'_?" she muttered in frustration, her hand tightening its grip on his fingers.

Her words sounded brittle to him, as if she were on the verge of tears. _Was it because of him?_ He couldn't tell. _Or was she in pain?_ He winced at the dreadful memory of how she'd slipped from his hands and fallen through the floor, injuring her wrist. He desperately needed to know if she was all right.

As if reading his mind, she let go of his fingers and drew her arm from under him. Then she held her hand against his cheek to caress his face, feathering her fingertips lightly across his skin.

"Hey, don't you worry about me. I'm okay. _We're_ okay," she told him softly, her breath warm against his ear. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

He nodded very faintly and began coughing, which made him grimace. It hurt to move his head at all.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Her voice trembled slightly and he wondered if she were in fact already crying.

When he parted his lips to reply, he ran his tongue across his teeth and was taken aback by a metallic taste in his mouth. Then he noticed the sickening sensation of blood pooling at the back of his throat, making his stomach turn once again.

_How hard had he actually hit his head?_

He'd been anxious to console her – to tell her that he was all right - but he realized it was too late for that now. _He couldn't possibly be all right_. Instead he gave her all that he had left to offer her – something he'd withheld from her far too often - his honesty.

"Yes."

He frowned when he heard himself unexpectedly slur the word. _How exactly was that supposed to reassure her?_ Craning his neck, he tilted his head upwards and made a conscious effort to speak more clearly.

"What's … _this_?" He knew he didn't need to explain. She wouldn't be in doubt.

"Mac, sweetheart, we've blindfolded you." She paused for a moment, allowing him time to understand the implications. "Hawkes told us to."

He exhaled slowly, his worst fears a reality now. "Where … are we?"

"We're in the x-ray room behind the pathology lab," she replied in a soft whisper. "You walked most of the way yourself. Don't you remember?"

Shaking his head slightly, his breath hitched when the blindfold rubbed against his eyelids again. Coming here had been a smart move, but he also knew the x-ray room was a dead end, which meant they were trapped now.

"Well, you hit your head pretty hard when you fell. I'm surprised you remember anything at all."

"Stella," he said, finding simple comfort in the familiar syllables, "where's your ID?"

"Don't worry. I got rid of it like you told me to."

"Good." He let out a deep sigh of relief. "Don't let anyone find out that you're my -"

The sudden roar of a 747 jet engine directly above the building interrupted him. Rattling the windowpanes, the thunderous boom reverberated across the floor and straight up into his sprawled body. His was already the mother of all headaches, but now it _really_ felt like his head was going to explode.

"Oh God." He sucked in his breath as lightning struck inside his head again, belying the old adage. Then the agony slithered down his spine to claim the rest of his body, making him arch his back in anguish.

_That's it. I can't do this any longer_.

A rush of adrenaline flooded his veins, overriding the pain and urging him to take charge of the situation. More than anything now, he needed to get off the floor, free his hands, and yank the blindfold from his eyes. He ignored Stella anxiously shushing him, imploring him to stay still and keep quiet. Instead, he rolled onto his side and angled his elbow against the floor to push himself up onto his knees.

"Stella, let me get up!" he cried out, when she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back down to the floor. "I know how –"

To his astonishment, her hand slid across his face and clamped down over his mouth. He lay still for a moment - too stunned to move - before uttering muffled protests between her fingers. In his desperation he began rolling his head from side to side, attempting to slip out from under her grasp.

"I need help here! Now!" Stella's harsh words clipped the air.

There was a shuffle, and then her trembling hand was replaced by a much larger hand that covered his mouth completely. Fearing suffocation, he panicked and began squirming against the floor, before he realized he'd been left ample space under his nose to breathe. Now another firm hand rose to clasp his head from below, pushing up against the nape of his neck and tilting his head back.

"Hey, take it easy, Mac! Take it easy," a well-known voice urged him. "C'mon, lie still,_ please_!"

The vise-like grip on his head immobilized him, and he felt his restless body instinctively tighten like a bowstring. The only sound in the room now was his own furious breathing, inhaling and exhaling through flared nostrils. All he could do to vent his frustration was to raise his knees and kick out his feet.

His anger churned uselessly inside him when he recalled how he'd been restrained using Don's handcuffs. The irony was too terrible to contemplate – these were the same handcuffs that _he_ himself had insisted on giving back to Don. Counting his years in the Corps, he'd already experienced more adversity in his lifetime than most men. Yet nothing he'd ever faced before could possibly compare to _this_.

"If I let go, you _have_ to be quiet, okay?" Don was speaking in measured words to sound calmer than he was. "Can you do that?"

Another surge of pain was already rising like a tidal wave inside his head. Yet still he nodded, buying himself time to speak before he inevitably broke his promise. He sensed Don's hesitation before he lifted his hand from his mouth.

"Take these …" he growled between clenched teeth, concentrating on forming each word coherently. "Goddamned …" He coughed briefly to clear his throat. "Handcuffs … _off_."

"I'm _so_ sorry, Mac," Don whispered to him. "I can't do that."

At that moment, the breaking swell crashed down over him, making him gasp aloud as he was plunged back into the turbulent waters. He arched his shoulders and began thrashing his feet against the floor, fighting the riptide that threatened to tow him under again.

Don slipped his hand back over his mouth. "Doc, hold down his feet. _Now_!"

Through the haze of pain, he felt Stella's hand on his forehead again, and then Sheldon's weight settled across his legs. His stomach clenched at the thought of all three of them holding him down at once. To him, it didn't seem like they'd come up with a plan for escape at all, apart from keeping him pinned to the floor. He was certain he was the only one who knew how to get them out of the building safely. Yet he was powerless to help them as long as they wouldn't even let him speak.

Exhausted by his struggle, he let his body grow slack beneath their hands and slumped against the floor. His heaving breaths gradually eased up and leveled off into a shallow rhythm. Outside, the indefatigable crickets were still chirping away and birds twittered amongst themselves, cheerily oblivious to the events inside the room. Then two tugboats tooted briefly to each other on the river - the only man-made sound so far, apart from the airliner just minutes earlier. It was almost hard to believe that they were still in New York City.

Two fingers pushed down against his throat and lingered on his pulse for a moment.

"I don't like this," Sheldon muttered uneasily. "I don't like this _at all_. He's not out of the woods yet."

"Hey, I don't like this any more than you do," Don hissed back at him, "but it's not like we have a _choice_ here. _He's_ the only one they want alive. If we don't keep him quiet, he'll get the rest of us _killed_."

At that moment, a cold draft swept through the room, and he sensed the other three abruptly tense up and hold their breaths. As he strained to hear what was going on, his ears picked up the sound of something scraping sluggishly across the concrete floor. He realized that something was brushing against the dried leaves in the room, slowly making its way towards him. _Something that wasn't human_. Unable to act on his rising sense of panic, he let out a muffled groan under Don's hand that sounded more like a whimper in his own ears.

Suddenly he recalled that - only three days earlier – someone had actually told him that _this_ would happen. At the time, he hadn't paid attention to the warning, dismissing it as superstitious nonsense and forgetting about it until now. Yet if the sinister prediction were about to come true, then _this_ was only the beginning of his ordeal. Next he would lose his mind - and finally he'd lose Stella. Perhaps it was already the first sign of his impending insanity that his overriding concern right now was how to protect Stella.

_Without his eyesight_.

* * *

**Next: Chapter 2 - No man is an island, entire of itself **

We go back to what happened three days earlier

* * *

No, Mac isn't dreaming. This is really happening. And yes, everyone is quite sane. And Mac _does_ eventually lead the others out of the building to safety. So what's going on? Well, there's actually a reasonable explanation.


	2. No man is an island, entire of itself

**Author's note**: So why is everyone being so mean to Mac? :'C Short answer: they're _not_ – they're desperately trying to protect him, as he is them.

I'll keep dropping hints about what'll happen later on in the story, while still keeping you mostly in the dark. The previous chapter is by far the largest clue. If you survived the angst in that, you're ready for the rest of this story, though some of you may be too young for the M-rated stuff. ;D

* * *

**Chapter 2 - No man is an island, entire of itself **

* * *

___"No man is an island, entire of itself,_  
_every man is a piece of the continent"  
_- John Donne

_Three days earlier_

On the day that would be his last, Chief Inspector Patrick Lévis-Lauzon of the Sûreté du Québec stood at the edge of a small wood, staring at the farm nestled on the riverside down below. His eyes swept along the gravel road that sloped down through the cornfields towards the old farmhouse.

_No movement_.

He studied the bushes in the little vegetable garden behind the dilapidated picket fence.

_No movement_.

Then his eyes rose to linger for a moment on the curtains drawn in the upstairs windows.

_No movement_.

Finally, he followed the rutted two-track trail that led across the farmyard to the large barn in back.

_No movement_.

He lowered his night vision binoculars and handed them to the American standing beside him. Their eyes only met briefly, yet the man immediately understood that the Chief Inspector wanted a second opinion. Without a word, he raised the binoculars to take another look at the farm before the sun rose over the magnificent St. Lawrence.

Lévis-Lauzon glanced down at his watch, not for the first time that morning. _04:43 am_. Still another forty-seven minutes before his _Groupe tactique d'intervention_ raided the farm in search of $100 million worth of cocaine.

Eight GTI members were lined up behind the Chief Inspector, ready to take their agreed positions at the farm upon his signal. Another two men had silently paddled a Zodiac downstream and tied up the rubber boat in a shallow inlet directly behind the barn. Lastly, a single flanker was posted at the top of the hill, providing rear guard cover and maintaining radio contact with the local EMS. As a precaution, an ambulance had been parked a half-mile down the road, idling ominously in front of a local residential nursing home in the dark.

The American standing in their midst was a latecomer to _Opération Loquace_, a cross-Canada crackdown on narcotics trafficking that the Sûreté had been planning for months. Although the man was now clad in the same black Kevlar vest, sweatshirt and cargo pants as the GTI team, he was in fact the chairman of the High Intensity Drug Trafficking Areas program in New York. Lévis-Lauzon had met him for the first time only two days earlier, yet he couldn't think of anyone he'd rather have by his side right now.

The HIDTA chairman pointed towards a handmade sign on the farmhouse porch that advertised farm-fresh eggs, pickled eggs, vegetables and chicks.

"With all those chickens, there's bound to be a dog down there as well." He handed the binoculars back to the Chief Inspector. "Have your men find it before it wakes everyone up."

"Un chien?" The youngest GTI member, a redhead barely out of his teens, shook his head with a frown. "Nous n'avons pas vu une niche sur les photos."

"Listen up, son," the American growled, placing a paternal hand on the young man's shoulder. "Ground truths _always_ trump satellite imagery." He jabbed a finger up at the star-speckled sky above their heads. "Don't expect to be able to see a dog house from space."

Lévis-Lauzon raised the binoculars and nodded his tacit agreement. With a double flick of his hand, he signaled for two of his men to approach the farmyard with their weapons drawn. The rest of the team watched the men slip between the rows of shoulder-high corn, before being swallowed up by the inky darkness below.

From high above the treetops there came the faint buzz of early-bird commuter traffic on the bridge that crossed over Cornwall Island. The Seaway International Bridge spanned the St. Lawrence to connect Ontario in the north with New York State in the south. Below the bridge, the island's two thousand acres of gently rolling farmland were planted to corn and soybeans. Along the northern coast, there were apple orchards interspersed with pine tree plantations and groves of sugar maples. The southern coast was dotted with farmhouses on gravel driveways along Island Road, which ran the length of the island like a backbone.

The unusual location had made it impossible for the Sûreté van to approach the farm during daylight, and they'd crossed the bridge under the cover of darkness. On route, Lévis-Lauzon had caught sight of local business signs that left no doubt about the proud heritage of the island's resident population. _First Americans Trucking Inc., Peace Pipe Tobacco and Convenience Store, Running Deer Construction, Wolf Paw Consulting, Three Feathers Internet Café._

Waiting in silence together with the rest of the GTI team, the HIDTA chairman stared absently at the void behind the farm. He twiddled the golden band on his finger, his mind apparently a million miles away. Somewhere out there in the dark, beyond the water and the international border, lay his own native jurisdiction. When he glanced up, he noticed one of the older men - a wiry man with a trim, gray beard, named Brossard - watching him with interest.

"Do you miss your wife?" the Canadian whispered to him, an eyebrow raised.

The American blinked at the older man in surprise. Then a slow smile crossed his lips, a contrast with his no-nonsense demeanor so far.

"Ah, un nouveau marié!" Brossard broke into a broad grin and swatted the man's back amiably. He exchanged knowing glances with his smiling colleagues. "Qu'est-ce que je vous dis, eh?"

In the early morning stillness, tiny little chirps, whistles and flutelike trills began to echo from the dark woods behind them. Birds were waking up to greet the first embers of dawn now kindling on the horizon. The opening notes were a robin's carol, followed by the airy tweet of a thrush. Then warblers and other little songbirds began to chime in as well. Briefly, the clear whistle of a white-throated sparrow could be heard, which the GTI men patriotically recognized as '_Oh-sweet-Canada-Canada-Canada_.' The chatter gradually grew louder to include the occasional honks of woodcocks in the cornfields below, and the squawks of loons and herons nesting on the riverbank.

On the horizon, a sliver of orange and crimson pierced the cool blues of twilight. A single band of color spread out, separating heaven and earth. Then the first golden rays emerged and began to set the eastern sky ablaze.

By now the dawn chorus had risen to a riotous crescendo, whose volume equaled the roar of a freight train bearing down on the valley. Unable to converse above the clamor, the men on the hillside exchanged incredulous glances instead. Gradually the sheer onslaught of birdsong began to level off and fade away, just as dramatically as it had begun.

Another beautiful summer day had broken on the St. Lawrence.

"C'est magnifique, non?" the youngest GTI breathed, moved by the experience. He shrugged his shoulders to shake off the shivers still tingling down his spine.

The American turned to smile at him, nodding.

"Unbe-fucking-lievable," one of his gruff older colleagues replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "What the hell are we whispering for?"

Lévis-Lauzon glanced down at his watch again. _05:03 am._ Now he had exactly twenty minutes to get his men into position before the sun's rays spilled into the cornfield valley itself. Naturally it would have been far more sensible to raid the farm under the cover of darkness. Yet _Opération Loquace_ had been synchronized right across Canada, which meant pre-dawn raids in British Columbia and Alberta, and daylight raids in Quebec and most of Ontario.

At that moment, the sudden _tuck-tuck-tuck_ of an old diesel engine made the men glance up. Through the pine trees silhouetted along the hilltop, they caught glimpses of a John Deere pulling an empty flatbed wagon.

Frowning, the Chief Inspector brought his radio up to his lips. "Leclerc, avons-nous un problème?"

"_Négatif, Commandeur_," the GTI man standing guard up on Island Road replied. "_C'est juste un tracteur."_

"Bon. Allez, allez, dépêchez-vous!" Lévis-Lauzon signaled to the rest of his men. "Vous avez moins de 20 minutes!"

With the experienced Brossard as their point man, the GTI team fanned out and disappeared into the cornfield together. Only the Chief Inspector and the American remained standing at the edge of the woods, sharing the binoculars.

In the growing daylight, they saw an early-morning mist swirl up from the St. Lawrence, veiling its southern shore. The river, still slumbering in its bed, seemed deceptively languid at this early hour. It rose up to merge with the sky and form a single canvas, painted in the same soft pastel hues. Its tranquil water mirrored fluffy mother-of-pearl clouds that floated on a sea of cerulean blue above. Wispy tendrils of mist wafted across its surface, reaching into the valley to curl in between the cornstalks.

Together, Lévis-Lauzon and the American kept a watchful eye on the team's progress as they approached the farm below. Above their heads, the color of the morning sky continued to shift towards daylight. The sun already sparkled off the steel high-rise bridge, and the distant hum of traffic grew steadily louder. A few minutes later, sunlight began creeping down its concrete pillars towards the trees on the island hilltop.

The summer dawn was deepening fast, rapidly growing bright and hot. Now the sun had already reached the tallest treetops, streaking them with gold. In the valley below, dozens of barn swallows were sweeping down low over the corn, skimming insects from the air for breakfast. The two men on the hillside swatted at the gnats that'd begun to buzz busily around them, attracted to the scent of their blood. When they heard a flock of shorebirds make a racket on the riverbank, both men paused for a moment to take a look.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

The previous day, Lévis-Lauzon and the HIDTA Chairman had spent several hours in the Sûreté operations room, poring over reports, terrain maps and satellite imagery spread out on a large light-table. They'd bent down over the tabletop to study high-resolution aerial photographs of the island with eye lens magnifiers. They'd charted all the possible access routes to the farm with Magic Markers, noting its proximity to the US border and the Seaway International Bridge. With their fingertips, they'd carefully traced the contours of the riverbank, trying to locate the most suitable place to land the Zodiac. The American, apparently of a scientific mind, had even calculated the exact time of the sunrise over the farm trigonometrically.

"Sheesh." When they were done, he'd shaken his head and glanced at Lévis-Lauzon with a disapproving frown. "I take it you'll have a word with local law enforcement afterwards?"

"Yes," the Chief Inspector had sighed. "Yes, I will." Money had obviously exchanged hands for the cocaine to have been stashed this close to the international border.

The sheer scale of_ Opération Loquace_ was staggering, involving more than 1,000 officers right across Canada. Yet everyone at the Sûreté readily agreed that the logistics of Lévis-Lauzon's assigned role was by far the most complicated. Although Cornwall Island was located entirely in Canada, it was also part of the Mohawk reserve that straddled both the Quebec–Ontario border and the Canadian-US border. This meant that the Chief Inspector not only had to coordinate the raid with the Ontario Provincial Police and the Canada Border Services Agency, but also to notify the DEA, ICE, FBI and Homeland Security in the United States, before finally squaring off the whole operation with the Grand Chief of the Mohawk Tribal Council.

And as though that hadn't been enough already, Lévis-Lauzon had received an unexpected call from the HIDTA chairman announcing his intention to visit to Montreal, just two days before the raid. Lévis-Lauzon's first instinct had been to stall the American, and he'd attempted to explain that the timing was inconvenient from a Canadian point of view. Yet the man had refused to listen, having already booked the first available morning flight out of LaGuardia.

The Chief Inspector hadn't recognized the man's title, but a quick Google search confirmed his worst suspicions. Whereas the HIDTA _director_ was authorized to supervise law enforcement operations, the _chairman_ was merely a part-time figurehead with vague deskbound duties and an absurd six-figured salary. The position as chairman was traditionally awarded to someone with friends in high places - a textbook example of the 'hooks' and 'cranes' that still governed promotions within the NYPD. A case in point, the incumbent chairman had been nominated by the Chief of Detectives, whose career Lévis-Lauzon knew had been dogged by rumors of graft and cronyism.

The two men had gotten off to a bad start when they first met - or so Lévis-Lauzon had thought at the time. He could easily have dispatched an officer in a squad car to the airport, or even have instructed the American to take a taxi or the shuttle bus into town himself. Yet his Sûreté superiors had warned him that the HIDTA chairman would be expecting the full red carpet treatment while in Montreal. This left the Chief Inspector with no choice but to abandon his daily briefing of his GTI team and drive out to the airport himself.

Extensive roadworks in the Dorval interchange had Lévis-Lauzon arriving at Montréal-Trudeau already 20 minutes late. Then the ExpressParc was unexpectedly closed, sending him on a detour to the three-story, long-term parking deck farthest from the terminal building. As he sprinted towards the arrivals hall, he glanced uneasily at his cell phone, anticipating an angry call from the HIDTA chairman. If the American had the temerity to lodge a formal complaint with the Sûreté already, then he knew to expect a furious call from the Director General himself.

By the time Lévis-Lauzon finally stepped through the sliding terminal doors, he was a full 40 minutes late. While cursing the chairman under his breath, he glanced around in an attempt to locate the man in the crowd. His eyes were instinctively drawn to the most eligible candidates in the arrivals hall: balding, paunchy, red-faced men dragging oversized Samsonite suitcases behind them. _Americans_, he sighed inwardly. _God help us all_.

After a few minutes, he noticed a dark-haired man leaning against a concrete pillar in back, watching the bustling commotion from a distance. When their eyes met, the stranger held him in an unwavering stare, leaving him in no doubt that he'd finally found his American. He was much younger than Lévis-Lauzon would've expected for a man in his position - in fact he looked to be close to forty, his own age. Taking note of the man's trim haircut, his sharp, dark suit, and the duffel bag resting at his feet, Lévis-Lauzon immediately recognized him as a military man – just like himself.

As he wove his way through the jostling crowd, he was struck by how tired the American looked. Dark circles were set deep under his eyes, almost like bruises, suggesting long hours and sleepless nights. Yet the man's gaze was still watchful and alert, which hinted at a smoldering fire burning within. Lévis-Lauzon was certain that this man possessed the single-mindedness to interrupt an obviously busy schedule and pay a personal visit to Montreal.

"Chief Inspector Lévis-Lauzon, I presume?" The man arched an eyebrow as they shook hands, seemingly implying that he didn't suffer fools gladly. "You're _late_."

The American had a quiet, gravelly voice with an indeterminate, Midwestern accent. He was at least a head shorter than his host, but at 6'3" the Chief Inspector towered above most men. His remark had just been a statement of fact, and his tone carried no actual reproach. Yet still Lévis-Lauzon's stomach clenched at being called out like this by someone he'd just met.

He nodded his head curtly in response. "Welcome to Canada, Mr. Chairman."

"Oh, there'll be no need for that."

The man's lips had curled at the sarcasm laced in Lévis-Lauzon's words. Oddly, his smile was shrewd, almost canny, as if he shared the Chief Inspector's distaste for his own title.

"As I mentioned on the phone," he added genially, "I'm here in my capacity as Head Supervisor of the New York Crime Lab. That's still my _day_ job."

Lévis-Lauzon nodded again. "Detective Taylor, in that case."

Now the Chief Inspector realized that the American had been observing him just as closely, and had already noted the car keys that were still jangling in his hand. The man nodded his head towards the bilingual ExpressParc sign on the wall, thereby explaining his patience. _Nous vous prions de bien vouloir nous excuser pour la gêne occasionnée par la fermeture temporelle. __Please accept our apologies for the inconvenience caused by the temporary closure._

"Shall we go find your car?"

He pushed himself off the pillar and slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to accompany his Canadian host to his alternative parking space.

As they strode out through the sliding doors together, Lévis-Lauzon took another good look at his guest. Despite all the fuss at the Sûreté about his visit, the man had no air of self-importance about him and didn't seem to have time for fancy footwork. _Perhaps he'd misjudged him after all. Perhaps they would get along just fine. _

"How long will you be staying in Montreal, Detective?" Lévis-Lauzon watched the American toss his bag into the trunk of his car.

"However long it takes to find what I'm looking for," Mac replied with grim determination, slamming the trunk shut. "I've got an open return."

* * *

******Next: Chapter** 3 – Ill habits gather by unseen degrees 

We find out what Mac is searching for

* * *

With such a lovely sunrise, you can already tell that something dreadful is about to happen, right? So what is Mac searching for in Canada? Well, duh, we already know that. Perhaps a more interesting question is: why is he in _Canada_? ;D


	3. Ill habits gather by unseen degrees

**Author's note**: Thank you for your very kind reviews of the previous chapter. Yes, the pushy Mr. Chairman is … Mac! LOL So what's he doing in Canada? Well, he's hell-bent on finding something that was briefly in his possession during 'Snow Day.' And that'll get him, and everyone else, into _such_ trouble. But you know that already ...

This is probably my least favorite chapter (too much talk), but I do have a lot of explaining to do … :C

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Ill habits gather by unseen degrees**

* * *

_"Ill habits gather by unseen degrees,  
__As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas."  
_- John Dryden

As he left Montréal-Trudeau, Lévis-Lauzon drove past a strip of airport hotels before heading for the expressway that arcs westward around the city center. As expected, traffic was still gridlocked at the mile-long roadworks on the Dorval interchange. Construction workers in fluorescent vests were walking down the middle of road, flagging all cars into a single lane.

For the next thirty minutes, they inched past an unsightly mess of cement, gravel and crushed rock. A cloud of debris dust billowed in the air, filtering the bright morning sunlight. Bulldozers were parked at odd angles along the hard shoulder, and yellow payloaders kept reversing across the asphalt. Everywhere, twisted rebar jutted out of concrete like giant forkfuls of spaghetti, resembling some kind of post-apocalyptic nightmare.

The two men hadn't spoken since leaving the airport. Undoubtedly they'd have exchanged a few words by now, if it hadn't been for the staccato of hydraulic jackhammers outside. The Chief Inspector drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel, trying to make the world spin a little faster on its axis. He glanced at his passenger, whose head was turned to look out of the window. Though he hadn't commented on their lack of progress, the American was tapping his fingers restlessly on his knee.

As his host, Lévis-Lauzon felt it impolite not at least to make an attempt at conversation.

"Is this your first visit to Montreal, Detective Taylor?" he shouted above the roar and rumble of construction outside.

Mac looked back at him and nodded. "Yes, it is."

"In that case, I hope to show you more scenic sights before you leave."

Mac stared at the jumble of orange traffic cones and detour signs, and was grateful he hadn't opted for renting a car.

"I really appreciate you taking the time to meet me at the airport, Chief Inspector."

Lévis-Lauzon shook his head. "It's no problem at all, I can assure you."

Once they were past the construction site, Lévis-Lauzon sped around the slopes of Montreal's eponymous landmark before exiting in the direction of the St. Lawrence. Traffic was dense on the narrow streets as he wove his way through the northern suburb. Soon the Sûreté headquarters was visible in the distance, beside the trusses of one of the many bridges that connected Montreal Island with the Canadian mainland.

"The Director General asked to meet you first thing. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Mac replied graciously, suppressing his natural urge to dispense with the red tape.

Now the Chief Inspector turned into Rue Parthenais, a pleasant, tree-lined street flanked by brightly colored townhouses, art cafés and bookshops. People were sauntering down its sidewalks, enjoying another balmy summer morning in a city more accustomed to sleet and snow.

Up ahead a garage sale had attracted a crowd of curious locals, who were rummaging through boxes stacked up on folding chairs. A curly-haired woman in a floral dress was holding a patchwork quilt up to the sun, inspecting its seams. Two young children - a boy and a girl - sat by her feet, engrossed in a pile of comic books. As they drove slowly past, Mac turned in his seat to gaze at the three of them on the curbside lawn.

A few minutes later they arrived at the Sûreté du Québec, a modern glass-and-concrete high-rise that towered over its quiet, residential neighborhood. Lévis-Lauzon pulled into a parking lot behind an electrified fence and waved to a uniformed man inside a guardhouse. While they waited for him to raise the barrier gate, the elderly man looped his finger in the air, signaling to Mac to roll down his passenger window. Puzzled, Mac obeyed and accepted a handful of NHL trading cards to pass along to the smiling Chief Inspector.

"Merci beaucoup!" Lévis-Lauzon leaned forward and gave the guard a friendly salute. "C'est très gentil à vous!"

In the elevator Lévis-Lauzon noticed how his guest's eyes were drawn to the words _Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires _beside the button for the 12th floor. He made a quick mental note to try to squeeze in a visit to the Sûreté's crime lab, should time permit. He'd never spent much time down there himself, but he knew that the lab was world-renowned for its expertise in pharmacodynamics, the study of the effects of drugs on the human body.

On the executive 15th floor, they walked along a windowless hallway adorned with framed photographs of the Director General shaking hands with various VIPs. On more than one hundred separate occasions, the man had somehow managed to strike the exact same pose and smile the exact same smile, every single time. Lévis-Lauzon watched his guest break his stride in order to stop and stare at the photos.

Mac pointed towards the oak-paneled door at the end of the hallway. "Please tell me he's not having another photo taken now."

The Chief Inspector tapped his finger on an empty spot beneath the last photo frame. "For you."

"You're kidding me." Mac exhaled slowly, a pained expression on his face. "That's really _not_ what I came to Canada for."

"At least you'll be in good company, Detective." Lévis-Lauzon pointed to a photograph of the Director General bending down to kiss a man's hand.

"The _Pope_?" He turned to look at his host in disbelief.

"What can I say?" he replied with a wry smile. "My team provided the security detail, _he_ got the credit."

"Christ Almighty …" Mac muttered under his breath.

Lévis-Lauzon laughed out loud. "That's exactly what _he_ said."

"At least he won't kiss my hand, right?"

"Oh, I wouldn't bank on it, Detective. He thinks you're here on behalf of HIDTA."

"Fine, whatever …" Mac shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "But it's _you_ I've come to talk to."

They were shown into the Director General's office by an elegant woman wearing wingtip glasses and a pencil skirt. The view from the panoramic windows was breathtaking. The city skyline sloped dramatically upwards from the old heritage buildings at the harbor front to the soaring skyscrapers beside Mount Royal.

Behind a mahogany desk, a now-familiar man with steel gray hair and a bottlebrush mustache rose to his feet, smiling broadly. His dark green uniform was resplendent with gold braid and epaulettes. He offered Mac a firm handshake, gripping his elbow, while his secretary expertly wielded the camera.

Once they were seated across from him, the Director General proceeded to drone on for forty-five minutes about the importance of Canadian-US collaboration on narcotics trafficking. Lévis-Lauzon watched Mac's eyes glaze over during the long-winded monologue in heavily accented English. He glanced down at his own hands, which he was wringing in embarrassment beneath the Director General's desk, and noticed that Mac was pinching his wrist to stay awake. The two men's eyes met for a moment to exchange empathetic glances.

Afterwards, they walked briskly down the back stairs to the Chief Inspector's own office, two stories below. The entire floor was a bustling hive, humming with activity. Everywhere, staff were milling around or sitting behind their desks, busily typing on computers and answering phones. On their way, Lévis-Lauzon and Mac passed meeting rooms with cross-Canadian videoconferences in progress.

Up ahead, a dozen wall-mounted televisions were tuned to French- and English-speaking news channels. Mac paused for a moment when he caught sight of himself and Sinclair standing shoulder-to-shoulder during one of their many press briefings together. He frowned, annoyed to hear his own carefully chosen words about the Sandman dubbed into incomprehensible French. _How could he be talking about 'le marchand de sable' when he didn't even know what the words meant?_

The Chief Inspector had a glass-walled office in one of the far corners. Slowing down, he stopped to ask a secretary to hold his calls before filling two Styrofoam cups from the office coffee maker.

"You," he announced, as he closed his office door behind him with his foot, "are obviously a very patient man, Detective Taylor."

Mac didn't protest when he pushed a large cup of black coffee into his hands. "If it gets me what I want, then _yes_."

He took a grateful first sip and glanced around the Chief Inspector's office, unintentionally comparing it to his own. The décor was simple and unassuming, providing few clues about the man now seated behind the desk, yet still it spoke volumes. He looked past the official portrait of Queen Elizabeth II to admire a framed photograph of a young Lévis-Lauzon wearing a light blue beret and a UN peacekeeping uniform. According to the caption below, he was planting a maple sapling in Sarajevo on the occasion of Canada Day.

"_Van Doos,_ Royal 22nd Regiment," the Chief Inspector explained, watching him. "Yourself?"

Mac smiled. "22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit."

With pride of place on Lévis-Lauzon's desk there was a framed photograph of a lovely blonde woman, her arms wrapped around two identical-looking boys on her lap. One boy had draped his arm lazily behind his mother's shoulder, and the other was making rabbit ears behind his brother's head. All three of them were smiling affectionately up at the camera, obviously held by Lévis-Lauzon himself.

"My family."

The Chief Inspector's face lit up with unabashed pride. He was suddenly reminded of the trading cards in his coat pocket and stacked them beside the phone on his desk. Appreciating Mac's obvious curiosity, he picked up the photo frame and handed it to his guest.

"My sons have their mother's eyes, don't you think?"

Mac studied the photograph closely, intent on seeing what Lévis-Lauzon meant. At first glance, the two boys looked completely alike to him. Even their hair was parted identically. Though he didn't doubt it was possible, he wondered how on earth their parents told them apart. Both boys appeared to have inherited their father's stature and earnest gaze, yet there was a gentle gleam in their eyes as well, just like in their mother's.

"Definitely."

Thinking back to his own office, Mac realized that he'd not once considered displaying a family photo since his promotion to Head Supervisor years ago. Although his heart had always ached for Claire – still did - he'd never wanted the awkwardness of her photograph being a daily reminder to his staff that their boss was a widower. And now it was fairly pointless to display a picture of his second wife - as she'd be the first to point out herself.

He set the photo frame carefully back down on the desk, smiling to himself.

"Chief Inspector, I think it's about time I explained why I'm here in Montreal at such short notice."

Lévis-Lauzon nodded. "You mentioned something about a large shipment of cocaine."

"What I'm about to tell you is _highly_ classified information. You cannot even tell your Director General about this."

The Chief Inspector frowned for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "All right ..."

"Four months ago the NYPD seized 900 kilos of cocaine, with a street value of $100 million, at a Brooklyn warehouse. My Crime Lab was asked to sample 20 percent in order to validate its purity, and I handled the chain of custody myself."

Mac sighed deeply before continuing, loathing to dredge up memories from that dreadful day, the absolute low point of his career. He hadn't suffered any physical harm himself, but it'd hurt his self-esteem that gangsters could wreak so much havoc on his watch.

"Six members of an Irish gang, dressed as Mid Borough gas company employees and as FDNY firefighters, raided the Lab in an attempt to retrieve the cocaine. We managed to stop them, thank God." His mouth was now set in a grim line. "But not before they endangered the lives of my staff and ended up nearly destroying the entire Lab. We've only just recently finished fixing the damage."

"Yes, I remember reading about that in the newspapers." Lévis-Lauzon nodded, looking puzzled. "That made a few headlines, even up here."

"Well, two days ago, the entire shipment was stolen _again, _this time from the NYPD evidence lockup in Red Hook. This time around, the men wore NYPD uniforms and somehow managed to fool the property clerks."

Lévis-Lauzon was stunned at the unexpected revelation. "What on earth was the cocaine doing at the lockup?"

Mac was reminded of his own incredulity two days earlier, when the head of the FBI field office had received a text message about the theft during a HIDTA meeting that he'd been chairing. It'd required every ounce of his self-control not to interrupt the meeting immediately in order to call the Commissioner, demanding an explanation.

"The cocaine was being held as evidence pending the trial of the surviving gang members, which begins next week. Some_ genius_ in Narcotics assumed it'd be safe at the lockup." Mac raised his hands and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Don't even ask. It's too embarrassing for words. The NYPD just keeps on losing that cocaine like it's a slippery bar of soap."

"I don't understand." Lévis-Lauzon frowned, still trying to absorb the news. "Why weren't we notified about the theft by the DEA?" He pointed to his busy colleagues outside his office. "We _expect_ to be kept in the loop by our American counterparts at all times."

"Like I said, it's as embarrassing as hell," Mac sighed. "Believe me, One Police Plaza is keeping a _very_ tight lid on this. I doubt _I'd_ even have been informed, if I hadn't happened to be HIDTA chairman, as well."

"So who are the people behind this?" Lévis-Lauzon asked. "You said an Irish gang raided your Lab, right? Were they the same ones at the evidence lockup?"

Mac nodded. "Apparently, according to witness statements. And these guys aren't _cowboys, _believe me. I've never seen anything this professional before in my career. There are over ten thousand identical, bar-coded evidence barrels at the lockup, and yet it only took them _minutes_ to remove the right ones."

The moment he'd adjourned the HIDTA meeting, he'd immediately phoned Don and Stella to meet him at the lockup in Red Hook. By the time they'd arrived, the building was already swarming with clueless cops and a handful of very tetchy senior Narcotics officers. He'd quickly pulled rank on everyone in sight to prevent any attempt at cover-up, ensuring that Don and Stella were able to secure the scene properly. When the Commissioner had shown up at his request, looking shaken, he'd been standing at the top of the pier, engaged in a heated argument with the Deputy Chief of the Narcotics Division.

"How did they move the barrels out so quickly?"

"The lockup is located on the Erie Basin pier, directly on the East River. They simply _rolled_ the barrels down the pier ramp into an awaiting speedboat, would you believe?" Mac looped his finger wearily in the air, demonstrating the simplicity of the heist.

While Don had taken statements from red-faced cops, he'd managed to seize the surveillance tapes and dust the lockup for prints, before following the barrel roll down the ramp, photographing each splintered piece of wood himself. He'd found Stella on her hands and knees at the end of the pier, shielding her face from the saltwater spray as she scraped paint residue from the pilings below.

He remembered staring at the waves slapping against the weathered wood, coated with mussels and other maritime growth. When their glances briefly met, Stella had been quick to read the look in his eyes. A few hours later she'd been sitting beside him in a rocking Harbor Patrol boat, watching the flashlights of police divers move sluggishly through the murkiness beneath the surface.

"Current's not too bad, Mac," she'd said, squeezing his hand. He'd known she was doing her damnedest to cheer him up. "Viz is three feet. Pretty good for New York Harbor, I'd say."

"By the time someone noticed that the barrels were missing," he continued to explain to the Chief Inspector, "the men were already long gone. A few hours later, their speedboat was found scuppered at the bottom of the Erie Basin. Empty. We salvaged the boat, but the saltwater destroyed any evidence."

The news that the cocaine had been stolen _again_ was an unwelcome blow at a time when the Crime Lab was already stretched to its utmost limit. The newly refurbished Lab had only just begun functioning normally again, and for weeks the Sandman had everyone putting in double shifts.

He found he could deal with Don and Stella's outrage at the theft, which echoed his own fury. Don, who'd been a part of the team that had recovered the cocaine at the Brooklyn warehouse in the first place, made a solemn vow _never_ to work with Narcotics again. Stella, on the other hand, had gone through all of his political options with him, suggesting ways in which he could wield his HIDTA influence to get what he wanted.

But what he _couldn't_ deal with was the hurt he'd seen in Danny and Adam's eyes when he'd assembled the rest of the Crime Lab staff later. Both men had joked about the theft, making light of what'd just happened, but he'd sensed their distress that their suffering had been in vain. Stella had recommended keeping them off the case to avoid re-traumatizing them. Yet in the end, he'd allowed them to take lead on processing the evidence from the lockup and the speedboat. He didn't want them to think – even for a minute - that he doubted their recovery from their ordeal at the hands of these men.

It'd been at that moment - when Danny and Adam had come up empty-handed - that he'd decided to follow up on his hunch about who'd _actually_ been behind the attack on the Crime Lab. He'd done it for the sake of Danny and Adam, but also – he wasn't kidding himself - for the sake of his own pride. He was going to make a _point_ of bringing these men to justice. Even if it meant going to Canada and leaving Stella in charge at an impossibly busy time. And even if it meant taking on the most dangerous adversary in all of New York City.

"Well, that sure took a lot of nerve. So now you think you know where they took the cocaine?"

Mac nodded. "Given where we found the speedboat, I suspect they took it to the Red Hook container terminal, which is located a few hundred yards farther down the Brooklyn waterfront. I think the cocaine was stowed inside a shipping container onboard _Pathfinder_, the only ship at Red Hook destined for Canada. This is why I've been in such a damned hurry to get up here. I want to be there when _Pathfinder_ arrives at the Port of Montreal tomorrow morning."

Not surprisingly, the Chief Inspector was baffled by his reasoning. "But what makes you think the cocaine is bound for Montreal? Even if it really is onboard a container ship, there must be dozens of other possible destinations around the world."

"You have a very good point there." Mac nodded patiently again, aware that he needed the Canadian's support right now. "You see, I'm _certain_ the cocaine is destined for Montreal. What I _don't_ know is if it's coming up here inside a container. But that's where _I'd_ have put it, if it'd been my job to smuggle the cocaine into Canada."

"But _how_? How would you get the cocaine into a container? We're talking about 900 kilos here."

"Oh, I know of at least a dozen different security loopholes at the container terminal." The American looked smug for a moment. "It really wouldn't be that hard to do."

"Well, thank goodness you're on _our_ side, Detective." Lévis-Lauzon whistled under his breath at the audacity of the suggestion. "But why are you so sure the cocaine left New York in the first place? Presumably someone went through a lot of trouble to smuggle it _into_ New York. Why ship it on to Montreal?"

"As you know, when it comes to organized crime, there's an obvious connection between our two cities. La Cosa Nostra was founded on smuggling alcohol from Canadian distilleries into the US. And '_Lucky'_ Luciano always claimed that controlling Montreal was essential to controlling New York. The size of your industrial port has always made Montreal an ideal gateway for trafficking drugs into New York."

"Well, yes, I understand all of that." The American hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. "But you're talking about smuggling cocaine _out _of New York and _into_ Montreal. Haven't you got it all back-to-front, Detective?"

Mac smiled. "Let me explain it to you in another way. As HIDTA chairman, a lot of highly confidential reports cross my desk every day. I'm not just talking about report from the DEA and US Immigration and Customs. I'm talking about the ATF, the FBI, the Coast Guard, the US Marshals, the Secret Service, the IRS, the Federal Reserve Bank. You name it, _I_ have access."

"That's an awful lot of intelligence."

Mac nodded. "For months now, I've been studying these reports carefully, trying to work out who was _actually_ behind the attack on my Crime Lab."

"You just told me they were Irish gangsters." Lévis-Lauzon looked confused.

"But there _are_ no Irish gangsters in New York capable of pulling off something like this. Neither Hell's Kitchen nor the notorious Westies gang exists any longer. All we've got left in New York are two-bit, bar-brawling thugs with Irish-sounding surnames. I'll stake my reputation on that."

"That can't be right," the Chief Inspector quickly protested. "Two weeks ago the son of a Westies gangster was apprehended flying a planeload of marijuana from Vancouver into LaGuardia. I understand that his private jet is sitting impounded on the tarmac right now, while he's on remand at Rikers."

Mac shook his head with a frown. "Anyone _stupid_ enough to get caught at LaGuardia couldn't _possibly_ have masterminded this operation. Believe me when I tell you that security at LaGuardia is abysmal. Like I already told you, I've read all the reports."

"So, what, you suspect outsiders?"

"Yes, these guys had to have had outside help. I mean _seriously_ professional help. No one is talking, but I think that help came from Montreal. I confess I don't know much about the situation up here, which is why I need you to explain it to me."

"But why Montreal?" the Chief Inspector asked again, fully aware that he was repeating himself. "What's the connection?"

"I think I've discovered a drug-trafficking pattern that everyone else has overlooked." Mac shrugged his shoulders. "I don't think any of my HIDTA predecessors ever bothered to read the reports. Certainly none of them would've taken a scientific approach to the data."

"Okay." Lévis-Lauzon put his hands together and studied Mac's face across his fingertips, listening intently. "So explain how it works to me."

"We agree that Canada is the main source of synthetic drugs - such as ecstasy - into the US, right? And that the US is the primary source of cocaine into Canada?"

Lévis-Lauzon nodded reluctantly, unable to follow his line of reasoning again. "Well, yes … of course. What of it?"

"Well, I've discovered a so-called _nexus_ between ecstasy being smuggled into the United States, and cocaine being transiting back into Canada. I think a brand-new drug trafficking constellation has begun trading large amounts of ecstasy _directly_ for cocaine supplies, and vice versa."

"And what's the point of that?"

"Drug trafficking is all about supply and demand, right? In Colombia, the world's biggest coca producer, cocaine costs only $2 per gram, less than a Big Mac."

"Yes …" The Chief Inspector leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head, awaiting the rest of the explanation.

"Once it's cut and bagged, though, cocaine sells for about $25 per gram in New York and - what – up to $40 per gram here in Canada, right?"

Mac waited for the Canadian to nod before continuing.

"In New York the demand for ecstasy and other synthetic drugs is _astronomical_ at the moment. My Crime Lab statistics can verify this. A crime syndicate that can smuggle large amounts of cocaine _into_ Canada and bring synthetic drugs _back_ to New York is looking at a profit margin of close to 30%."

The Chief Inspector sat up with a start. "Do you realize what you're saying? If you're right about this, then $100 million is just a drop in the ocean. We're talking _billions_ of dollars in illicit drug profits here."

Mac nodded. "If I find the cocaine here in Canada, it'll _prove_ that my theory is correct. Someone is making billions of dollars right under our noses."

Lévis-Lauzon's eyes narrowed. "And you suspect the Mafia is behind this, don't you?"

"Well, it makes sense from my point of view. They control the cocaine market in New York, and they have a historical connection to Montreal. There are close ties between our Five Families in New York and your so-called Sixth Family here in Montreal, right?"

The Chief Inspector shook his head regretfully. "But I'm afraid it doesn't make sense from _my_ point of view. It's true that the Italian Mafia controls the cocaine market here in Montreal. But they _don't_ have access to synthetic drugs and – more importantly – they _don't_ control the Port of Montreal."

Mac was quiet for a moment, clenching his jaw in frustration at the disappointing news. "Well, who _does_, then?" he finally asked.

"The _Irish_ ..." A slow smile overtook Lévis-Lauzon's mouth. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking right now?"

"I think so." Mac smiled back at him. "Have you noticed any major shifts in the power balance between drug traffickers here lately?"

The Chief Inspector was silent, running all of the new information through his mind again.

"Funny you should ask." He gave Mac a strange look before rising to his feet. "Let's take a drive, Detective. As you said yourself, _Pathfinder_ won't arrive until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I'll show you _exactly_ what's going on here in Montreal."

He headed for the door and held it open for Mac. "There are some people I think you should meet."

* * *

**Next: Chapter 4 – He who would search for pearls **

Lévis-Lauzon takes Mac to meet the enemy

* * *

Yes, Mac is taking on organized crime! But something _else_ is going on here, as well …

The next couple of chapters are set in Canada. If I have any Canadian readers, please forgive my ignorant mix of fact and fiction. Your lovely country (and a few fictional compatriots) is _crucial_ to this story, since trouble will be following Mac back to New York. What kind of trouble? Tune in again to find out! ;D


	4. He who would search for pearls

**Author's note**: Yet another quiet chapter - just to show that I _can_ actually write those. Actually, reading over this again, I realize I must've been hungry when I wrote it, LOL A belated *happy birthday* to my three lovely reviewers whose birthday it's just been! :D

* * *

**Chapter 4 – He who would search for pearls must dive below**

* * *

"_Errors like straws __upon the surface flow,  
__He who would search for pearls __must dive below."  
_- John Dryden

As they left the Sûreté, the Chief Inspector turned right to head in the direction of the St. Lawrence. With the sun still shining from a cloudless sky above, the temperature had already soared into the high eighties. Both men slipped on their sunglasses to avoid the dazzling noonday glare.

At the end of the street, their view of the river was blocked by the concrete ramps leading up to the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. Railroad tracks and a six-lane expressway ran beneath the bridge, connecting Montreal with Quebec City downriver. They drove alongside the expressway for a few minutes before turning into Saint Laurent Boulevard, the sweeping avenue also locally known as the Main.

Down at the harbor front, tattoo parlors, poolrooms and peepshows served as reminders of their proximity to the industrial Port. Yet at this time of day, the red-light district looked more wretched than seedy. Tattered posters and graffiti covered most of its boarded-up storefronts. Tourists were taking snapshots of the Café Cléopâtre and other nightclubs with _strip-teaseuses_ on their marquees.

"In Montreal," Lévis-Lauzon explained to his American visitor, "organized crime has traditionally been in the hands of the Italians and the Irish, our two largest ethnic groups ..."

Mac nodded absently. He was staring at a billboard advertising _les_ _spectacles de travesties._ Someone calling himself Big Freedia Queen Diva was hosting a dance party with the invitation, "_Secouer ce que votre maman vous a donné!_" He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but _spectacle_ seemed appropriate for the occasion.

"… well, apart from us French, of course," the Canadian added earnestly.

Mac glanced at him with a smile. "French, oh _really_? I can't say that I'd noticed ..."

After a few blocks, the boulevard passed beneath one of the red-and-gold gates that bordered Montreal's Chinatown. Here placards for the Miss Chinese Pageant were tied to every lamppost, and stony-faced lions watched over the steady stream of traffic. Grocers had extended their stores onto the sidewalk with crates of fresh fruits, imported canned goods and jars of thousand-year eggs.

Mac noticed that the dim sum restaurants and hotpot eateries all had lobster on their sandwich board menus. He'd risen too early for breakfast and dozed through the meal served on his early-bird flight from LaGuardia. He couldn't quite recall whether he'd eaten, coming home from work around midnight, but his stomach seemed to be telling him no, definitely no.

"As I mentioned to you, the Italian Mafia controls the cocaine market up here," Lévis-Lauzon continued. "And for the last 50 years, the Risottis have been the leading Italian crime family."

Mac nodded again. "The Sixth Family."

Leaving Chinatown through another ornate _paifang_ gate, the boulevard climbed the hill just north of Mount Royal Park. Up here the fashion boutiques, cabaret theaters and cafés looked particularly _chic_ in the bright sunshine. Everywhere crowds of shoppers milled around, cutting freely across the busy flow of midday traffic. The Chief Inspector had to slam on his brakes a few times to avoid hitting pedestrians and bicyclists.

"So if your cocaine is destined for Montreal, my first guess would be that it was being brought here by the Risottis."

"So you say."

Eyeing the French parking signs and metric speed limits, Mac was once again reminded to be thankful he wasn't driving himself.

Ten minutes later, the Main slid under a railway overpass and reappeared in yet another neighborhood. Now they drove past auto repair shops and fenced-in used cars dealerships. Here the garbage-strewn sidewalks were all but empty. Only an occasional fitness gym or late-night bar enlivened an otherwise run-down part of town.

Gradually leafy residential streets began to sprout from both sides of the boulevard. Here the apartment buildings had outdoor stairways painted in vibrant colors, with flowerpots on every step. Young families were sauntering down the sidewalks, pushing sleeping toddlers in strollers. Everywhere people were sitting in crowded outdoor cafés, drinking coffee in the shade of bright red Lavazza umbrellas.

After circling for a few minutes, Lévis-Lauzon found a parking space in front of a small home-style restaurant, aptly named Trattoria Casa Mia.

"If you follow me, Detective," he pulled the key from the ignition with a smile, "I'll introduce you to the Risotti family."

Mac climbed out after him, a little hesitantly. Both men were still wearing their jackets, but he was fairly certain Lévis-Lauzon hadn't come armed. Although he trusted the Canadian's professionalism entirely, he questioned the wisdom of confronting the Risottis directly about the cocaine theft. Yet when the Chief Inspector set a brisk pace down the sidewalk, he had no time to give it further thought.

Lévis-Lauzon strode toward a bustling open-air market, where Québécois farmers sold freshly-picked fruits and vegetables, all _certifié biologique_. Dotted among the produce stands were vendors selling meat, fish, pastries and cheese, as well as dealers in imported spices and cooking oils. Everywhere shoppers were either squeezing and sniffing the produce or counting out small change in exchange for their purchases.

Mac struggled like a salmon swimming upstream to keep up with his Canadian host. He ducked under garlands of dried chili peppers, trying not to lose sight of the Chief Inspector, ten paces ahead of him in the crowd. On his way, he passed mounds of freshly cut herbs, ready to be made into pestos, ragùs and richly seasoned marinara sauces.

A smartly-dressed young woman approached him, holding a folded umbrella high above her head. Having made the mistake of politely stepping aside for her, Mac quickly found himself backed up against crates of tomatoes and zucchini flowers by a swarm of Japanese tourists.

"Montreal's Little Italy is the oldest in Canada," Lévis-Lauzon explained over his shoulder. "It was founded by poor farmers from Sicily."

Having finally caught up, Mac replied a little breathlessly, "Just like in New York."

Since it was lunchtime now, the warm breeze wafting through the marketplace carried the mouth-watering aromas of grilled merguez sausages, deep-fried calamari and hot crêpes. Mac was intrigued to see people eating what looked like chopped-up omelets from clamshell containers. Next to a little bagel stand, a gelateria was serving its customers maple ice cream in freshly-baked waffle cones.

A few minutes later, they emerged from the farmer's market onto Dante Street. Lévis-Lauzon cut diagonally across the street and headed for a little fenced-in park.

In Dante Park, people were sitting under shady trees eating their lunch. Two student violinists had brought their instruments to perform Bach and Vivaldi for donations. Several elderly men were playing bocce on a small court, calling out to each other in Italian as they lobbed their bocce balls with astounding precision. Their shouts of camaraderie melded with the Baroque music and the children playing on the little playground.

"Remember to kick with your _laces_, not your _toes_."

Mac slowed down to watch a little girl dribble a soccer ball across the grass, while her elder sister ran alongside, coaching her. Instinctively he turned to search the lunchtime crowd for a parent. A young woman was reading the newspaper while bobbing her foot lightly to the music. Every once in a while, she glanced up to smile at her talented daughters.

Mac could tell that the girls were having fun together, enjoying their little time-out from parental supervision. He bit on his lower lip for a moment, reminded of his own niggling worries. Given what all he and Stella had witnessed over the years, he could only imagine them watching their children like a pair of hawks. _How would they ever learn to let go while at the same time still holding on?_

Looking up, he saw the Chief Inspector waiting patiently for him by the park gate, his elbow resting on a dour bust of Dante.

"Kids …" he explained with a vague shrug when he'd caught up again. "It's just nice to see them playing like this. In New York the parks are all empty. Have been for _weeks_."

Lévis-Lauzon nodded seriously. "So I've heard. Sounds like you've got a lot on your hands right now, Detective."

"_Tell_ me about it …" Mac replied with a weary sigh. He was juggling just about as much as he could handle at the moment. It would probably only take _one_ little complication to bring everything tumbling down.

The Chief Inspector pointed to a Romanesque church with a large cupola and redbrick façade, directly behind the little park.

"That church over there is the cornerstone of Little Italy. The Risottis have always been its main benefactors, and today we'll find all of them gathered inside."

Following the sidewalk, they stopped to face the front entrance to the church from across the street. It was an imposing brick building with a tall, gabled roof and large stained-glass rose windows above its entrances.

Lévis-Lauzon turned to point to the busy Italian bakery right behind them.

"The past two months I've personally videotaped _six_ mob funerals from inside this bakery." He pushed his finger against the window pane. "At the Sûreté, we always keep close tabs on who shows up – and who stays away."

Mac nodded and turned to look absently at the pasticceria behind him. Lévis-Lauzon noticed that his eyes didn't move beyond the trays laden with biscotti, cannoli, almond tortes and pignoli macaroons in the storefront window.

"Are you getting hungry, Detective?"

"Mmm." Mac glanced at him with a lopsided smile. "I may just have skipped breakfast this morning."

"Now _where_ are my manners?" the Chief Inspector exclaimed, throwing up his hands in self-reproach.

Grabbing hold of Mac's elbow, he steered him down the crowded sidewalk towards a little delicatessen on the street corner. Moments later, the two men were standing in the shade of its awning, munching on smoked brisket on rye with a generous smear of mustard.

When they were finished, Lévis-Lauzon led the way across the street to the church. Both men pocketed their sunglasses on their way up the steps. Entering through the heavy doors, they both instinctively touched their foreheads and shoulders with their fingertips.

Inside, the spacious interior with its high-vaulted ceilings was a pleasant contrast with the dark, wooden pews and confessionals below. Radiant sunlight slanted through the first-floor gallery windows to highlight the marble altar and pulpit up ahead.

The only other person in the church appeared to be an old woman in an apron, sweeping dust from the tiled floor. Eyeing them suspiciously, she straightened her back and threw a glance in the direction of the collection box.

Mac looked around and recognized the carved-wood depictions of the stations of the Via Crucis that adorned the church walls. Unusually, however, the dome ceiling was decorated with brightly-colored frescos. The cleaning woman nodded in approval when he took a moment to study the many figures that populated the paintings above his head.

The Virgin Mary was framed in celestial light, surrounded by a host of angels. On her right, the Pope headed a procession of cardinals and bishops, and on her left, missionaries were busy christening the native population. Mac froze when he suddenly spotted a lantern-jawed man in military dress, sitting straight-backed on a horse.

"Mussolini?" He turned to Lévis-Lauzon for an explanation.

The Canadian rolled his eyes. "_Don't_ even ask. It's too embarrassing for words."

Mac followed the Chief Inspector to a small side altar, where a memorial service had recently been held. Dozens of little beeswax candles were set in red votive glasses before a statue of the Virgin Mary. Six framed portraits of sullen-looking, dark-haired men were lined up behind the flickering flames.

Lévis-Lauzon swept his hand across the altar with a little flourish. "Meet the Risottis, Detective Taylor."

Mac gasped at the unexpected revelation. "Are you saying they're all … _dead_? You were taping _their_ funerals? What on earth happened to them?"

The old woman began stocking collection envelopes in the pews nearby, and Lévis-Lauzon lowered his voice to just above a whisper. He pointed to the first portrait on the left, a rotund man with a pencil mustache.

"Two months ago, Vincenzo Risotti – also known as '_Vic the Egg' -_ was getting into his sports car, when an unidentified gunman shot him in the chest."

Mac frowned. "What kind of gun?"

"A Timberwolf. That's a common hunting rifle here in Canada, but also an Armed Forces sniper rifle."

Then Lévis-Lauzon pointed to a young man with sideburns and a scar across his nose.

"A week later, the body of the Risottis' own hit man, Rocco '_Rubber Duck'_ Violi, was fished out of the St. Lawrence. He'd been shot in the head."

"_Rubber Duck_? A hit man? Are you serious?"

The Chief Inspector nodded. "You actually think I'd make something like that up?"

"Well, I don't know, we've only just met. Would you?"

Smiling back at him, the Chief Inspector pointed to the next man. He had acne-scarred cheeks and appeared to be sneering at the camera.

"Two weeks later, the family _consigliere_, Frank '_The Weasel'_ Sciarra, was driving to the airport, when his car suddenly erupted in a massive explosion. His body was burned beyond recognition in the mangled wreckage."

"What kind of explosive?"

"Military-grade PETN. That's pretty hard to get ahold of, but not impossible. Its main civilian use is in mining engineering. As I'm sure you know, it's not very stable and requires skillful handling."

Now Lévis-Lauzon pointed to a man with horn-rimmed glasses and a disheveled comb-over.

"Only one day later, Vic's brother-in-law, Maurice '_les Fesses'_ Martin – that's _buttocks _in French, by the way – was shot through the heart while picking up his dry cleaning."

"_Buttocks_?" Mac shook his head in disbelief. "You're pulling my leg, aren't you, Chief Inspector?"

Lévis-Lauzon smiled again. "Hey, I _wish_ I was making this up, Detective. Our ballistics determined it'd been a clean shot from a rooftop more than 300 yards away. A Timberwolf again. Same one."

Now he pointed to a middle-aged man with slicked-back hair.

"Vic's brother Paul '_The_ _Ponytail'_ Risotti was blown up while getting out of his car at his mistress's house. PETN again."

He turned around to look at Mac. "Do you get the picture I'm painting for you here, Detective?"

"Well, you've certainly filled my head with some very colorful images," Mac conceded with a smile.

The last portrait was of a fierce-looking elderly gentleman in a stylish gray suit.

"Finally, the 86-year-old patriarch of the Risotti family, Vito '_the Priest'_ Risotti. He was shot through his kitchen window two weeks ago. He was holding his great-granddaughter at the time, but she was unharmed, _merci Dieu_."

While Lévis-Lauzon made the sign of the cross, Mac bent down to study the old man's face. In his day, this man had been a legend. It was hard to believe that the former head of the Canadian _Cosa Nostra_ had come to such an ignominious end.

"As you probably know," the Canadian explained as Mac straightened up again, "in the Mafia there is the notion of dying with your shoes either _on_ or _off_. Vito Risotti was retired, yet still someone decided he wasn't going to get to die with his shoes off. That's _brutal_, even for Mafia-style executions."

Mac nodded thoughtfully. "So now you're looking for at least two men. An expert marksman and an explosives specialist, possibly - but not necessarily - with military backgrounds. Not your average thugs, in other words."

The cleaning woman began scooping wax out of the votive candleholders on the altar. Lévis-Lauzon tugged at Mac's arm, pulling him across the aisle towards the wooden pews.

"_Definitely_ not your average thugs," he muttered in Mac's ear, keeping his eye on the woman. "We've never seen anything like this before. The Risottis have been wiped clean off the map."

Mac frowned at him. "I'm surprised the Five Families allowed this to happen. I'd have expected a bloodbath in retaliation."

The Chief Inspector shook his head. "All of Montreal is holding its breath, but the past two weeks have been completely quiet."

"So who do you think is behind this? A power struggle within the Italian community?"

Lévis-Lauzon opened his mouth, intending to answer, but stopped himself. The woman had grabbed her broom again and was sweeping her way resolutely towards them. In response, the two men retreated to the relative safety of the pews.

"No, _everyone_ in Little Italy attended –" Lévis-Lauzon paused to heave a deep sigh. "Christ Almighty …"

The old woman was making a beeline for them again, straightening songbooks and missalettes in the pew racks.

Mac tilted his head towards the collection box and the Chief Inspector nodded reluctantly. While Mac threaded his way back through the pews, he turned to glare at the old woman.

He pointed to the tiled floor between them. "Madame, c'est une église _publique_, n'est-ce pas?"

The woman threw out her hands, her fingers pinched against her thumbs.

"È per le _vedove e bambini_ Risotti, signore!" she berated him, smug in the knowledge that she had the moral upper hand.

When Mac began emptying his loose change into the collection box, she smiled at the tiny metallic clinks. She waited for him to finish before finally retreating, her mission accomplished.

"That ought to buy us a few minutes alone …" Mac tucked his wallet back into his jacket as he came back.

The Chief Inspector shook his head unhappily. "I should really reimburse you. You just made a donation to the Risotti widows and children."

"Well, then it's for a good cause." Mac's smile was reassuring. "And it'll be worth every penny, if it means I get to hear the rest of your story."

"Where was I …?" the Chief Inspector muttered. "No, _everyone_ in Little Italy attended the funerals. It wasn't an internal feud. I'm convinced these murders are about control over Montreal, the crown jewel of drug trafficking in Canada."

"So who benefitted from the killings?"

"Drug trafficking is all about _connections_, right? Most people only think about the crimes that are committed. But I see it as a business enterprise based on a large, up-to-date Rolodex, worth billions of dollars in this case. You realize I don't mean a _real_ Rolodex, don't you?"

Mac nodded. "Of course not."

"Whoever murdered the Risottis wants to take over their _connections_. This includes their suppliers, their distributors, their local politicians."

"So who has the Risotti Rolodex now?"

"No one has claimed their business yet, so it's not entirely clear. But given what you've told me today, I now suspect our Irish gangsters."

"You realize what you're saying, don't you? You're suggesting that the Five Families _conspired_ with Irish traffickers to take out the Sixth Family in order to maximize their profits." He thought about it for a moment before adding, "Well, I have to say that I agree with you."

"We'll know for sure whether we're right if we find the cocaine on board _Pathfinder_ tomorrow. It'll be proof of a most _unholy _alliance_. _And very, very bad new for both our cities."

Mac frowned. "What can you tell me about the Irish gangsters here in Montreal?"

"I can do more than just _tell_ you about them. I can show you where they live."

When they returned to the car, Lévis-Lauzon drove across town, past the central business district, to an industrial area near the Lachine Canal. Up ahead, they saw the smokestacks of abandoned factories and the iron girders of a rusty old railway bridge.

"Montreal's Irish immigrants settled in slums here in the West End," the Chief Inspector explained, pointing left and right. "They worked as laborers, but as you can see, the iron foundries, breweries and sugar mills have all closed down."

The former factories and warehouses now housed architect, fashion and publishing companies.

"This has now become Montreal's most desirable neighborhood. The canal-facing properties have all been turned into lofts and condominiums."

Mac nodded. "That's exactly what happened to Hell's Kitchen."

Lévis-Lauzon rolled down his window as they drove along the canal, lined with rows of tall poplars. A few cyclists and rollerbladers sped quietly along its grassy banks, and little boats plied the still waters between its locks. Out here the breeze was pleasant, ruffling the leaves on the trees, and the busy hum of the city seemed miles away. For the first time, the scent of blooming wildflowers and freshly-mown grass prevailed over the smell of exhaust fumes.

"The gangsters we're looking for have all moved to Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, ten minutes from here. It's one of the few places you'll still hear Irish spoken here in Montreal."

They drove back towards the city center again. Here the streets of the working-class neighborhood were lined with closely-spaced apartment buildings. Sherbrooke Street West, its commercial main street, housed a diverse mix of small family-run businesses and little convenience stores.

The Chief Inspector parked in front of Le Super Dollar, a discount store that had gone out of business long ago. Its dusty storefront windows were still plastered with faded _Clearance Sale_ posters. A couple of teenagers, too skinny to be in good health, stood in its doorway smoking something illicit. Next-door was a modest hardware store that appeared to double as a taxi company.

Lévis-Lauzon crossed the street and headed for a pub wedged between a Chinese grill and something called Encore Books and Vinyls. The words "Honey Morton's" were painted in golden letters on the shamrock green sign above its entrance. Outside, a crowd of students from a nearby college campus were smoking and chatting noisily among themselves.

"And who exactly is Honey Morton?" Mac asked as they pushed through the entrance doors.

"The owner's grandmother," the Chief Inspector replied with a grin. "A famous gun moll in the 1950's."

Mac laughed. "But of course."

It was a narrow, no-nonsense pub without video lottery terminals, but with space for a three-piece live band at the far end. The noise level was deafening, drowning out a wall-mounted television, tuned in to a local news channel. The wooden décor was snug and the lighting dim, with a strip of daylight filtering through stained-glass windows behind the bar. The walls were adorned with framed photographs - mostly vintage portraits of boxers - crammed together in a disorderly fashion.

The barmaids, dressed as rockabilly pin-ups, were serving their customers Guinness and Smithwick's on tap. Their boisterous patrons were all men, a curious mix of university students, tourists and brawny-looking locals nursing tumblers of whiskey. A few heads turned to glare at them.

"We'd better order drinks if we want to blend in here."

While Lévis-Lauzon pushed his way towards the bar, Mac studied the dog-eared notices on a pinboard behind him. _The Bernadette Short School of Irish Dancing, the Ciné Gael Montréal Irish Film Festival, the Comhrá Irish Language School, the Ancient Order of Hibernians In Canada. _

A few minutes later, the Chief Inspector returned through the jostling crowd to hand him a frothy half-pint of Guinness. They sat down at a little table together, keeping their backs to the wall.

As he waited for the head on his beer to settle, Mac listened to the conversation around him. By now he'd grown accustomed to the mix of French and English being spoken in Montreal. Yet for the first time now, he heard everything from a soft Irish lilt to a full, throaty tumble of Gaelic syllables.

His eyes widened when something suddenly crawled across his ankles, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He glanced beneath the tabletop and saw two husky puppies scamper over his feet. Bending down, he slid his hand through their fur and gently ruffled their ears, earning himself several eager licks. When a barmaid noticed him duck his head, she quickly called the playful little dogs back behind the bar.

The Chief Inspector looked around, frowning. "It doesn't really look like much, does it?"

"It certainly doesn't," Mac agreed, sitting up again.

"But if we're right about this, these men no longer need to fight for scraps. With the Risottis gone, _they_ are at the head of the table now."

Mac studied the many faces in the crowd. "So which ones are they exactly?"

Instead of replying, Lévis-Lauzon discreetly tapped the inside of his wrist. Mac glanced around and realized that some of the brawny men had the letters ALVALM tattooed in Gaelic script across their wrists.

"I don't understand." His brows furrowed. "Is that a name?"

"No, it stands for _à la vie, à la mort_. That means something like, _Till death do us part_."

"How very ominous."

Mac eyed the rough-and-tumble crowd warily. If these really were the men who'd stolen the cocaine from the Red Hook evidence lockup, then they'd stop at _nothing_ to get what they wanted. Especially if they knew they had the backing of the Five Families in New York.

"You know, I'm not sure I'd want to meet any of these men alone in a dark alley."

The Chief Inspector laughed. "Don't worry. No one here in Montreal knows who you are."

Mac waited for the froth to settle into stripes of black with white before he lifted his glass to his lips. He'd just taken a first sip when he heard Lévis-Lauzon exhale loudly, "Ah … _merde_."

Glancing up, he all but choked on his beer when he saw a close-up of his own face on the TV with the words, "Det. Mac Taylor, NYPD." It was a rerun of the same interview with himself and Sinclair that he'd seen earlier, at the Sûreté.

He held his hand self-consciously against his forehead, suddenly feeling exposed in the crowd. "That damned Sandman ..." he muttered beneath his breath. "I can't wait till we get our hands on that son-of-a -"

The interview footage was interrupted by a breaking news update, and now he saw the beleaguered-looking Mayor and NYPD Commissioner taking questions from the press. He jaw dropped when he read the yellow news ticker running along the bottom of the screen.

"Does … _sataniste_ … mean what I think it means?" he asked without taking his eyes off the television.

"Yes, I'm afraid it does," Lévis-Lauzon replied, concerned about the news on his behalf.

"Excuse me for a moment." Mac pulled out his phone and quickly moved his fingers across its buttons. "Satanist wtf?" It wasn't how he'd normally phrase the question, but right now it conveyed his mood pretty concisely.

As he'd anticipated, the reply was swift and firm. "Keep yr shirt on. And watch yr language. Not a CL rumor. Unknown source. We're on it, ok?"

"Ok ok," he texted back, letting his shoulders relax again.

He was about to slip the phone back into his pocket when it suddenly vibrated again. "Miss you, sweetheart. Come home safe."

"Miss you too, Mrs. T."

The Chief Inspector watched his American guest smile to himself, staring fondly at the glow of his cell phone. The Canadian shook his head with a grin. He knew exactly what _that_ look meant.

"Here's to our rendezvous with _Pathfinder_ tomorrow morning." He raised his glass to clink against Mac's. "_À votre santé_, Detective."

"Here's mud in your eye, Chief Inspector," Mac replied with a smile, before adding, "_Sláinte_."

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**Next: Chapter 5 – Whoever rigged fair ships to lie in harbors**

Things don't go as planned

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Well, they never do, do they? Especially in my stories. ;D Thank you very much for all of your kind reviews.


	5. Whoever rigged fair ships to lie in

**Author's note**: Welcome back, merry Christmas, thanks for the kind reviews!

If you're missing Stella in this story, I can tell you there'll be a whole (M-rated) chapter when Mac gets back home, just dedicated to their sweet (re)union. ;P If you've forgotten what they're like together, there are lots of lovely Smacked videos on YouTube. I've got a few links on my profile - if you've got favorites, just let me know and I'll add them as well. :D

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**Chapter 5 – Whoever rigged fair ships to lie in harbors**

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"_Whoever rigged fair ships to lie in harbors,  
__And not to seek new lands, or not to deal with all?  
__Good is not good, unless a thousand it possess,  
__But doth waste with greediness."  
_- John Donne_  
_

From the pub, they'd driven back to the Sûreté headquarters to pick up Mac's bag from the Chief Inspector's office. He'd booked his American visitor into the _Auberge du Vieux-Port, _a little hotel in the historic center of Montreal. While the Canadian waited down in the lobby, Mac deposited the duffel bag in his room, which was small but spotless, with large windows offering a pleasant view of the old harbor front.

In the early evening Lévis-Lauzon invited him to a restaurant within walking distance of his hotel. Taking a moment to study the menu outside, the Chief Inspector recommended the lobster bisque and steak frites. Inside the restaurant, the tables were set with fine china, silver and cut crystal goblets. A low fire crackled in a large stone fireplace, casting the diners in a soft amber glow.

Once they'd been seated, Mac was surprised to see Lévis-Lauzon plunk a bottle of red wine onto the starched linen tablecloth. He looked around a little self-consciously when the sommelier arrived, a broad-shouldered man who looked like he uncorked bottles with his teeth. The man responded by whacking the Chief Inspector on the back with a roar of laughter before sitting down to join them at their table. Then he proceeded to guzzle most of their pinot noir, leaving only a single glass for Lévis-Lauzon and Mac to share over dinner, which was on the house.

For several hours the two Canadians traded outrageous army stories, making a point of conversing in English for the sake of their guest. Mac sat with his elbow resting on the table, his head tilted in his hand, smiling at their light-hearted banter. He was tired and his mind felt hazy after a long day, but the food had been delicious and the company was nothing but engaging. As the evening wore on, though, his head dipped a few times. It took a friendly nudge from the Chief Inspector to stop him from falling asleep down in the crook of his arm.

They strolled back through the cobblestone streets together, and Lévis-Lauzon wished Mac a good night on the steps to his hotel. Yet Mac's sleep that night was fitful and restless as always, and he woke several hours before sunrise. He sat on his bed for a while, rubbing his face wearily, before finally pulling himself together and searching the room for a city map. The night porter glanced up in surprise when he strode past him - and again when he returned an hour later, breathless from a ten-mile run through the quiet city streets.

Coming out of his shower, he realized that he'd been so certain that the cocaine was onboard _Pathfinder_ that he'd only packed one extra shirt. He hadn't even considered the possibility that he might be wrong. He smiled. _Pride goes before a fall_, Stella always told him, whenever he got overconfident and rushed headlong into trouble. A few months back, she and Don had given him a right dressing down for having taken off after Clay Dobson in total disregard of protocol. Their harsh words had stung because they'd been _right_, of course, much to his chagrin.

He'd already checked with the front desk, and the day was predicted to be yet another scorcher, with temperatures climbing into the high nineties. That meant he'd dispense with his tie, and for a moment he debated whether he could lose the suit jacket as well. Yet he ended up deciding against it, since Lévis-Lauzon intended to introduce him to the Harbormaster and his senior staff before meeting up with _Pathfinder_ at the Port_._

After a light breakfast he met the Chief Inspector down in the hotel lobby.

"We're early. The Port Authority is just a few minutes from here. Let's take a walk."

The morning air was already warm and muggy, with only a slight breeze stirring. They crossed the sunny street, lined with old heritage buildings and terraced cafes, and walked through a waterfront park that ran the length of the Old Port. Beneath the trees, people were sauntering down a wooden promenade that afforded a sweeping view of the St. Lawrence. Mac watched caricature artists and buskers set up in anticipation of a busy day.

One of them turned to stare at him. "Hey, you look just like that guy on TV!"

"Sheesh ..." Mac rolled his eyes skyward and kept walking.

Lévis-Lauzon put out his hand. "Watch your step there, Detective."

Mac paused and narrowly avoided being hit by a mother towing her toddler in a cart behind her bicycle.

"With all due respect, your search for the cocaine somehow seems _personal_."

"Well, that's because it _is_ personal to me," Mac replied as they left the park and continued their walk onto a concrete pier jutting into the river. "These men tortured my staff. They destroyed our lab. They compromised the integrity of our hard work. There's just no way I'll let them get away with it."

Lévis-Lauzon nodded, recognizing the ingrained sense of responsibility that a commanding officer felt for his men. There was no doubt he'd feel the same way if something happened to any of the members of his GTI team. Yet his own sense of duty compelled him to warn his American colleague of the risk involved.

"But these are also _extremely_ dangerous men. If we're right about this, then they've just murdered Canada's leading crime family in cold blood. Who knows what they'll do if they suspect that you've come for their cocaine. Don't forget you're talking about taking $100 million away from them."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. I've done it before, remember?" Mac gave the Canadian his most reassuring smile. "I have no direct connection to what happened at Red Hook. Everywhere I go, everyone just associates me with that damned Sandman."

"Well, I need you to be vigilant all the same. As long as you are here - unarmed - in Montreal, your safety is _my_ responsibility." He raised the side of his jacket to reveal the Glock in his waistband.

Up ahead, at the end of the pier, stood an elegant clock tower that marked the entrance to the historic Old Port. As they approached the tower, Mac suddenly heard an unexpected noise.

"What's this?"

Truckloads of fine sand had been piled alongside the pier to create a beach, dotted with bright blue parasols and wooden lounge chairs.

Mac slowed to a stop, mesmerized by the sight of children scooping out sandcastles and kicking beach balls across the sand. Everywhere parents were handing out popsicles and lathering on great dollops of suntan lotion.

"A beach in downtown Montreal? Who would've guessed?" He laughed and turned to the Chief Inspector. "I'm impressed."

"My sons love this place." Lévis-Lauzon gave him a rueful smile. "I put in long hours at the Sûreté. This is probably the closest we'll ever get to a Caribbean holiday." He was quiet for a moment before adding, "I'm so proud of my boys."

"And so you should be."

Mac felt an unexpected twinge of envy. It was a sentiment that he rarely - if ever – felt, and one that he always disapproved of in others. Yet his regard for the Chief Inspector had grown every minute he spent in the man's company, and now he wanted to understand how he managed to combine his job and his family life.

"I'm sure they appreciate every minute they get to spend with you, Chief Inspector. Even if you don't actually leave town."

For a while the two men stood with their elbows resting on the pier bannister, watching the children play. They smiled at the serious faces on the little boys standing at the water's edge piloting radio-controlled sailboats. Nearby, a group of girls digging tunnels in the sand suddenly squealed with laughter when their fingertips met.

"I don't understand. Why aren't the children in the water?"

Lévis-Lauzon laughed at his remark. "I can tell you're not from around here. The current is far too strong for swimming. There's quite a powerful undertow. Three million gallons of water pass by here every second. That's _twice_ Niagara Falls, but without the noise, of course."

Mac shook his head in disbelief. Putting a beach here suddenly sounded insane, like building a playground next to a highway.

Pointing to the river, he asked the question uppermost in his mind. "So how do you keep your sons out of the water?"

"My boys are _nine_, Detective."

"And … that means what?" Mac asked, confused. "They do whatever you tell them?"

He vaguely remembered being nine years old himself, quite a handful to his parents. He'd been strong-willed and high-spirited, always on the prowl for ways to satisfy his curiosity. On a day like this he'd probably have been raring to go for a swim, but his father – a strict disciplinarian – would've kept him in line with a raised hand.

That wasn't the kind of father he wanted to be. Yet it was a role he all too easily slipped into whenever he got stressed, and lately he'd been _very_ stressed. It dismayed him how effortlessly he could intimidate his staff with a disapproving glare or a harsh tone. Thinking of Adam - and even Danny - he acknowledged that not everyone possessed the defiance necessary to stand up to him, as he'd learned to do to his own father. That made it all the more important that the mother of his children did, and Stella certainly never had any trouble giving him a piece of her mind.

"Oh no, no, not at all." The Chief Inspector shook his head and laughed again. "But they know I trust them to do the right thing. There's a difference, you know."

Mac nodded. "I see …"

But he didn't quite see. The Chief Inspector's words intrigued him, but the underlying psychology sounding baffling in his ears. _Would he ever get the hang of it?_ Maybe he needed to read books on the subject. Or perhaps trust his instinct more? He sighed deeply. Maybe he should just stop worrying. _Give it a rest, Taylor, before your head explodes._

He looked back down at the river again. A cloud had briefly drifted in front of the sun and now the water suddenly looked murky and uninviting. Inexplicably, the sight chilled him. "Now I'm even more impressed ..."

From the Clock Tower Pier, it was only a few minutes' walk to the Port Authority. The building faced a series of passenger terminals on the riverfront, where several majestic-looking cruise liners were berthed. A crushing throng of tourists milled across the concrete piers like a swarm of locusts, heading for the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal.

Downstairs in the lobby, the Harbormaster, an elderly man with a strong command presence, and three other men awaited them. Mac was pleased to note that the Canadians, though formally dressed, had also dispensed with their ties in deference to the weather.

The Harbormaster introduced his guests to his Director of Operations, his Chief Security Officer, and the CEO of Gateway Partnership, which operated the Port's container terminal.

"The entire Port is at your service, Mr. Chairman."

Hearing his words, Mac smiled. He realized that the Chief Inspector had also chosen to use his HIDTA title to grease the wheels. Although they hadn't divulged the size of the shipment, it was clear that everyone was taking his presence very seriously.

"I appreciate that very much, sir," he replied courteously. "I realize that I've arrived here in Montreal at very short notice."

"Tourists ..." the Harbormaster sighed and rolled his eyes at the crowd outside. "We've got _five_ cruise liners in at the moment. The Board of Trade is turning cartwheels. Nothing but trouble, if you ask me ..." he grumbled under his breath.

"We don't expect trouble at the container terminal, of course," the Chief Security Officer added reassuringly. "But as a precaution I've arranged for twenty of my security officers to assist your search of _Pathfinder's _cargo."

Mac nodded his appreciation and pointed impatiently to his watch. "Isn't _Pathfinder's_ ETA right now?"

"Container ships are not airliners, Mr. Chairman," the Harbormaster replied with an indulgent smile. "They rarely arrive on time."

The Director of Operations pointed to the elevator and addressed the Chief Inspector. "Monsieur l'inspecteur chef, nous pouvons suivre à la minute-par-minute les progrès de _Pathfinder_ par la radio VHF."

Upstairs, the Port Authority control center was manned by three watch officers, two of whom were monitoring the harbor while the third prepared shipping schedules. The walls were covered with marine charts and weather reports. Above their heads, a dozen screens provided a bird's eye view of the entire Port. A large automatic tracking system showed the position, course and speed of several hundred ships on the river.

The Harbormaster instructed the three watch officers to adjust their speakers, allowing their guests to eavesdrop on their VHF radio communication.

Looking around while he listened, Mac was impressed by the high-tech marine traffic-monitoring equipment in the room. He took a moment to study the little green blips on the radial-scan radar that pinpointed ships and buoys on the river. Next to the radar he recognized the differential GPS reference system developed jointly with the US Coast Guard to improve maritime GPS accuracy. Glancing up, he was pleased to see that the surveillance cameras - showing container stacks and perimeter fences - had thermal imaging capability.

While he paced the floor, his cell phone in his hand, the Chief Inspector sat on the edge of a chair, elbows on his knees, conversing politely with the Harbormaster. Two very long hours later, the VHF call they were waiting for finally came through. By then, Lévis-Lauzon was stretching his legs on the landing outside the control center, while Mac sat slumped back in his chair, checking text messages from New York with a frown.

"_Montreal Traffic. This is Pathfinder. How do you read me? Over_."

The words were surprisingly clear above the general crackle and hum of radio static in the room. Still, the watch officer snapped his fingers above his head to make sure he had everyone's attention. Jumping to his feet, Mac knocked on the landing window and signaled for Lévis-Lauzon to come back inside.

"Pathfinder, this is Montreal Traffic," the officer replied calmly. "I read you excellent. Switch to channel 1 - 2. Over."

"_Switching to channel 1 – 2 now. Over."_

The officer adjusted the earpiece on his headset and toggled a switch on the console table. "Pathfinder - Montreal Traffic here. What are your last port of call and your next port of call, please? Over."

"_My last port of call was Red Hook, New York. My next port of call will be Antwerp. Over."_

"Roger. Could I have your deep draft and deadweight tonnage, please?"

"_My deep draft is 09.80 meters, 0-9-8-0 meters. My tonnage is twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and sixty-five. I repeat 2-7-8-6-5. Over."_

The watch officer wrote the information down on a clipboard, which he passed over his shoulder to a colleague. "Roger that. What is your cargo?"

There was a crackle of static_. "I have general cargo onboard. Total number of containers is one thousand four hundred and thirty-two. That is 1-4-3-2. Over."_

"Understood." The officer leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "Call me again when you are two miles off Pointe-aux-Trembles. Stand by on channel 1 - 2 for further instructions regarding berthing. Over and out."

"_Trafic de Montréal — Ocean Serge Genois." _Now the captain of a tugboat with a pilot onboard was calling the control center_. _

The watch officer switched effortlessly into French. "Serge Genois — Trafic de Montréal ici."

"_OK, dans le 57 pour un navire qui s'en vient au 67."_

"Procédez, Serge Genois."

"_Roger, 96, c'est un depart."_

"Pilotage is mandatory because of the current," the Harbormaster explained and Mac nodded his understanding. The Chief Inspector had already made that point amply clear to him.

"_Montreal Traffic. This is Pathfinder. I am now in position. Bearing 2-8-6 degrees, speed eight knots, two miles from Pointe-aux-Trembles. Do you have berthing instructions for me?"_

An officer handed Mac a pair of high-powered binoculars and pointed to a dot on the horizon, barely visible beyond the Jacques Cartier Bridge. As his eyes narrowed on the ship, Mac realized just how much was at stake for him right now.

"Pathfinder - Montreal Traffic. Reduce your speed to four knots and proceed to the anchorage west of Pointe-aux-Trembles. Rig the pilot ladder on the port side. Stand by on channel 1 - 2 for further instructions. Over."

"_Understood. Standing by on channel 1 - 2."_

Mac lowered the Swarovski clutched in his hands, impatient to get a move on. "So how much time do we have now?"

The Harbormaster smiled at him again. "A container ship on a dead slow ahead bell isn't moving very fast. You've got _plenty_ of time, Mr. Chairman."

Lévis-Lauzon nodded, looking down at his watch. "I'd say we've got about an hour to get to the container terminal. Let's grab some coffee on the way."

They drove north alongside the river and stopped briefly for coffee at _Lafleur_, a greasy spoon on the corner of Notre-Dame and Dickson. Truck drivers were eating their lunch at wooden picnic tables in the parking lot. Inside the diner, the décor was plain with simple pinewood benches and tables.

Mac quickly raised both hands to decline Lévis-Lauzon's offer of a side order of _poutine_, a Québécois specialty consisting of French fries with cheese and gravy.

"C'mon, it's nearly lunchtime. You need to _eat_, Detective."

"I'm fine, really." Mac shook head with a smile. "I had breakfast at the hotel."

Chief Inspector raised a disapproving eyebrow at him. "You've got that lean and hungry look, you know that?"

Mac laughed. "Now you sound exactly like my wife, Chief Inspector."

Arriving at the industrial port, they drove under the elevated railway tracks that divided two distinct worlds — the city of Montreal and its dockside twin brother. While the guard at the entrance gate checked their security passes, a mile-long freight train rolled by overhead, its horn wailing for a full minute.

That morning the Port was already bustling with the full gamut of container ships, bulk carriers, oil tankers and coasters. Up ahead in the distance, Mac already glimpsed the outline of gargantuan cranes silhouetted against the sparkling St. Lawrence.

On their way to the container terminal, they drove past rows of sprawling warehouses and towering grain elevators before crossing a vast concrete flatland. Here liquid and dry bulk cargo was stored alongside large diesel tanks and pilings of steel girders. Mounds of crushed glass, sorted into piles of brown and green, glittered like jewels in the bright sunlight.

Everywhere little mobile cranes trundled in and out of cargo stacks, locating single loads to be placed inside railcars or onto flatbed trucks. Down along the waterfront stood the colossal cranes that did all of the heavy lifting and shifting at the port. From the ground they almost looked a mile high, and some of them seemed to be moving two or more shipping containers at a time.

"Well, I knew it was big, but I hadn't imagined it quite … _this_ big."

"The Port of Montreal is the world's largest inland port," the Chief Inspector explained as he slowed down to let a convoy of tractor-trailers overtake them. "It handles two million containers a year. That's _twenty_ times as many as Red Hook."

"Impressive." Mac looked around, nodding admiringly. The logistics of keeping track of five thousand shipping containers a day was almost beyond comprehension to him. "So how many people work here?"

"More than a thousand dockworkers, longshoremen, truck drivers, crane operators and cargo checkers."

"And how many of them are of Irish descent?"

"Around four hundred."

"Four hundred?" Mac whistled on his breath. "That's a fair number."

"These are traditional jobs, Detective, handed down from father to son for generations."

Lévis-Lauzon parked in a parking lot alongside a cold-storage warehouse. A fleet of forklifts was zipping in and out of the warehouse, stacking pallets of refrigerated goods on top of each other. Setting off to the container terminal on foot, the two men left their jackets behind in the car, but brought along their coffees.

Up ahead at the waterfront, the cranes were busy unloading and loading three gigantic container ships. Directly behind them, nearly a mile farther down the wharf, _Pathfinder_ was in the process of being moored to its dockside berth.

Flocks of seagulls circled lazily above the river, their cries piercing the sultry air. Pigeons fluttered down to the wharf to peck at kernels of grain that had been scattered across the concrete.

The river glittered under the intense gaze of the midday sun. Squinting against the glare, Mac raised a hand to shield his eyes as he watched a little tugboat nudge an oil tanker towards the dock. He was fascinated by the fact that a river could have the depth to accommodate ships this size. He slipped on his sunglasses and decided to take a closer look at the water, twenty feet below the wharf.

As he leaned forward, an alluring coolness floated up towards his face, drawing him even closer to the edge. Down below, the water surface shimmered with a lustrous sheen of oil. For a moment he stared at his own quivering reflection looking back up at him. When he noticed the cranes' dark silhouettes looming over his shoulders, he turned around to rejoin the Chief Inspector.

"Stay close to me," Lévis-Lauzon warned him, taking a sip of his coffee. "Let me remind you that the Port is a dangerous place. We recently lost two of our Sûreté informants down here."

"Oh?" Mac frowned. "What happened to them?"

"A mechanic fell from the crane he was maintaining." He pointed up above their heads. "According to our medical examiner, he died of blunt force trauma _before_ his body hit the ground."

Mac glanced up at the crane before looking back at the Chief Inspector. "And the other one?"

"A refrigeration engineer was standing on a ladder not too far from here." The Canadian pointed towards the warehouse behind them. "A high-voltage cable was found beside his body. He had burn marks on his ankles."

He turned to his American guest, looking very serious. "You _do_ realize you're planning to take on the New York Mafia, don't you? Singlehandedly, as far as I can tell."

"Oh, I won't be on my own for too long." Mac shook his head with a smile. "Right now, all I have to go on is a hunch. But once I find the cocaine, I'll have the proof I need to go after them with everything I've got."

"And what have you got?"

"As the Head of the Crime Lab, nothing whatsoever," Mac admitted with a shrug before adding, "But as Chairman of HIDTA, I've got _plenty_."

"What will you do?"

"When I get back, I'll call an extraordinary meeting and expose the whole operation to the agencies represented by HIDTA."

Lévis-Lauzon nodded. "And what happens then?"

"That means law-enforcement officers from the FBI, DEA and ATF will come knocking on their doors. That means US Customs and the Coast Guard officials will be closing the border loopholes. That means analysts from the IRS and Federal Reserve Bank will be going over their financial transactions. And that means lawyers from the Criminal Division of the Justice Department and the US Attorney's Office will start looking at indictments."

"Now it's my turn to be impressed."

"When I get back to New York, I'm going to _shut _them_ down_." Looking the Canadian in the eye, Mac pounded his fist against his open hand to make his point clear. "And for this to work, I need you to be doing the same here in Montreal, Chief Inspector."

"No problem. But in that case you'll have to let me inform my Director General. This'll be the biggest operation the Sûreté has ever undertaken."

"Well, of course." Mac nodded. He pointed to the line of container ships moored to the dock ahead of them. "Let's just go find the evidence first, okay?"

They walked alongside a seemingly endless wall of shipping containers, stacked four and five high like giant Lego bricks. Transport trucks wove through the narrow alleys between the containers like mechanical clockwork. Some were fully loaded, waiting to be unloaded, while others were heading toward the tractor-trailers parked outside the terminal.

As they continued their stroll, Mac tipped his head back to look up at the sky-high cranes overhead. They were moving sideways on dockside rails in front of the ships that they were loading and unloading. Thick steel cables were wrapped around the giant flywheels that linked the cranes' arms, deceptively delicate constructions that could lift hundreds of tons. Metal stairs welded to their sides zigzagged up past several catwalks before finally reaching the operator's cabin, 200 feet above ground.

"What's the largest single shipment of drugs you've seized here at the Port?"

"A few years ago, our Border Services found 26 tons of marijuana hidden in a container holding tea and spices from Mozambique. One hundred Sûreté officers formed a human chain from the ship's hull back to our trucks. Yet it still took us _three_ hours to unload it all."

"And what's your record for cocaine?"

"Last year we found 140 kilos concealed inside hollow ceramic tiles from Amsterdam. Two years ago 200 kilos of liquid cocaine were discovered inside bottles of sunflower oil. This year we found 100 kilos hidden in buckets of frozen mango puree. We became suspicious when the mango was transferred onto unrefrigerated trucks."

Now they could hear the hum and throb of _Pathfinder's_ engines, still running, up ahead. The ship's crew and longshoremen were busily securing the ship with mooring lines. A few figures turned to watch them approach, their muted voices drifting back across the closing gap.

"As you can imagine," the Chief Inspector added in a hushed tone, "900 kilos in a single shipment would be unprecedented in the history of the Port."

Finally they had arrived at _Pathfinder_, a towering vessel whose massive hull rose more than 150 feet above the wharf. Ropes as thick as their arms now hugged the ship tightly against the dockside, and the rumble of its diesel engines slowly died down.

They shook hands with the customs and immigration officials that were assembled on the dockside to meet _Pathfinder's_ crew. One of the senior security officers handed the Chief Inspector a two-way radio. While they waited for the gangway to be secured to the ship's side, Mac glanced up at _Pathfinder's_ colossal anchor, dangling like a sword of Damocles above their heads. A few minutes later, the Filipino captain and his three officers disembarked down the gangway.

"For our inspection," one of the officials announced to the captain, "we need to see clearance from your last port of call, two copies of your crew and passenger lists, three copies of your cargo manifest, and your stores and provision list."

Nodding, the grim-faced captain handed over a manila folder of documents.

"Is this your signature, sir?" The official leafed through the papers and handed one of the copies of the cargo manifest to Mac. "Does your cargo tally with the manifest?"

"Yes, sir," the captain replied, eyeing Mac suspiciously. "Exactly, sir."

"What kind of cargo will you be discharging here in Montreal?"

"Four hundred containers of general cargo, including some heavy lifts."

Upon hearing his words, Lévis-Lauzon's widened. He silently mouthed, "_Four hundred_?" to Mac, who rolled his eyes in resignation.

"It looks like we have a sum total of …" Mac paged back and forth through the manifest a few times, swiftly doing the math in his head, before sighing." … two hundred and twenty containers to search."

A few minutes later, he looked up to find twenty security officers and thirty customs officials assembled around him, awaiting his instructions. He climbed up on a stack of pallets to be seen and heard by everyone.

"Listen up," he raised his voice to address the men above the whirring and clanking of the crane moving into position to begin unloading. "The contraband we're looking for here today is cocaine, 900 kilos in total. It is likely that the cocaine is still located inside twenty 55-gallon cardboard barrels marked 'NYPD'."

Not unexpectedly, a murmur rippled through the crowd of officers.

"You'll need to check all broken and unbroken US Customs and Border Protection seals. If you disregard verifiably empty containers and containers that weren't loaded at Red Hook, you'll have a total of 220 containers to search. You will need to keep your eyes on the cargo checkers and longshoremen at all time. Absolutely _no_ containers are to be opened without your presence. Am I clear?"

He waited for the sea of determined faces to nod before adding, "Any questions? Good luck, gentlemen."

While the paperwork was being checked and verified, the customs officials paired up with security officers and fanned out between the container stacks.

The Chief Inspector pointed towards the moving crane. "Let's get a better view of the operation from up there, okay?"

Mac's eyes widened as he surveyed the fifteen or so stories of stairs leading to the top. "You're kidding me, right?"

Instead of replying, Lévis-Lauzon smiled and grabbed hold of the handrail on the side of the crane. With the advantage of longer legs, he set a brisk pace up the stairs, taking two treads at a time. He glanced over his shoulder a few times and was pleased to see his American visitor effortlessly keeping up. Yet by the time they reached the uppermost landing, Mac had to grab the guardrail with both hands to haul himself up onto the metal catwalk.

"Chief Inspector …" he gasped between deep gulps for air.

Equally winded, Lévis-Lauzon bent down to rest his hands on his knees while he recovered his own breath. "Please … just call me … Patrick …." he panted, staring down at the steel mesh between his feet.

"Patrick … " Mac wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, "was that really … _strictly_ … necessary …?"

"No … not really …" The Chief Inspector grinned sheepishly at him. "... I just wanted to see … if the NYPD … could keep up ... "

The two red-faced men stared at each other for a moment before they burst into laughter, clutching the guardrail tightly to remain on their feet.

"You need to be familiar with the routes the customs and security officers are taking through the containers," Lévis-Lauzon explained, once they'd recovered their breaths again. "Try to fix some landmarks in your head, so you don't get lost when we get back down there again."

Making a face at how high up they were, Mac dutifully began surveying his surroundings. From this vantage, the wide river and vast sky formed a stunning backdrop to the sprawling city of Montreal. Four freighters, their anchors dropped, were lined up on the horizon like obedient schoolchildren, awaiting their turn to dock at the busy Port.

Then he looked down to study the containers spread out like a gigantic multicolored mosaic beneath his feet. Longshoremen, cargo checkers, custom officials and security officers were swarming around everywhere like an army of ants. Trucks and small cranes rumbled between the rows of stacked containers, picking up and dropping off loads.

"No telling where the cocaine is stashed from up here," the Chief Inspector muttered. "What I wouldn't give for x-ray vision right now …"

Mac laughed. "Do you have _any_ idea how often I've wished for that, myself?"

By the time they climbed down the stairs again, the crane had already unloaded nearly a hundred containers and had moved down to the ship's bow. They crossed a busy avenue being plied by trucks and forklifts and made their way back to where they had started off. Taking a shortcut down a narrow alley between the containers, they suddenly heard voices drift towards them from somewhere else.

"... tuer le policier de New York ..."

Mac and Lévis-Lauzon stopped to exchange glances.

"So I've got NYPD _tattooed_ on my forehead now?" Mac exclaimed irritably.

"Whatever you do, stay close to me, okay?" The Canadian pulled his gun from his waistband and motioned for Mac to get behind him. He immediately picked up the pace and raised the radio to his mouth, ready to request back up assistance.

"Right now I don't care what happens to the cocaine. Right now my _only_ priority is your safety, do you understand?"

Walking ahead of him, the Chief Inspector looked over his shoulder several times to make sure no one approached them from behind. When he spied _Pathfinder's_ hull at the end of the alley, a few hundred yards up ahead, he radioed the security officers to arrange for them to meet them there.

Behind him, Mac glanced left and right between the container stacks they passed, trying to maintain his bearings. He slowed down for a moment when he thought he saw a US Custom's security seal that had been breached. His brows furrowed as he backtracked a few steps to peer through the narrow gap again.

At that moment a gigantic shadow eclipsed the sun, and a 25-ton container collided with the ground a few yards ahead of him. The resounding boom sent a swell of reverberations in every direction. He staggered backwards several steps and narrowly avoided being thrown to the ground by the sudden blast of air.

Once he'd recovered from the shock, he realized he'd been deliberately cut off from the Chief Inspector. The container had been dropped at a right angle to all of the others, barring the alleyway ahead of him. He slammed his palms against the corrugated steel to vent his frustration.

"_Hey_!"

He tilted his head back and sent a furious glare up at the crane operator, who'd already released the chains and was maneuvering the crane back towards the ship. He thought he heard Lévis-Lauzon swearing on the other side.

"Patrick! Are you all right? Patrick?" He pounded his fist on the container again, getting no reply. "Damn it!"

He turned around slowly, counting the seconds in his head. Everything was quiet in the narrow alley that stretched out behind him. Thin stripes of sunlight slanted between the container stacks, dividing up the shadows like a row of piano keys. Somewhere an open door creaked slightly on its hinges, and then a faint whiff of cigarette smoke wafted towards him.

His heart pounded loudly in his chest as he waited, his mind racing furiously. He realized he was going to get to meet the enemy in a dark alley, after all. He glanced up briefly, wondering if they'd try to jump him from above. Seagulls drifted across the narrow strip of blue sky above his head, taunting him in the shadows down below. The containers were stacked triple here, which meant a 30-foot drop, too high to jump.

Suddenly a man in a sleeveless vest stepped out in front of him. A telltale cigarette smoldered in the corner of his mouth, set in a grim frown. In his clenched fist, he held a tire iron that rested heavily against the palm of his other hand. His impassive eyes locked onto Mac's, while three more men emerged behind him, carrying identical weapons.

"Someone needs to teach you a lesson, eh?"

Far too late, Mac recognized the arrogance of his decision to come to Montreal to confront the drug lords on their own turf. He hadn't given his own safety much thought – he rarely did – and had relied entirely on Lévis-Lauzon for protection. Yet now he was on his own, and about to let Stella down big time. _Pride goes before a fall_. This was a lesson he was going to have to learn the hard way.

High above his head, the crane operator leaned forward - his chin resting on his tattooed wrist - to watch the spectacle about to unfold below. He'd seen how the two policemen - separated by the container - had both stopped in their tracks to stare up at him. Then one of them had turned around to find himself cornered by four longshoremen, while the other had set off on a desperate dash around the containers to save him. Yet he wouldn't make it in time – he'd seen to that himself. The steel maze he'd built around the American was sealed on all sides. He glanced at his watch with a satisfied sigh, already anticipating an early lunch break.

There'd be another fatal accident on the docks today.

* * *

**Chapter 6 - Friendship, of itself a holy tie**

Things get a little nasty

* * *

Uh-oh, Mac's in trouble - that didn't take very long, did it now? LOL Anyway, who am I kidding - things never ever get just a _little_ nasty. In the next chapter, Mac will run out of clean shirts to wear, but that'll be the very least of his worries. :C Don't forget to tune in again ...


	6. Friendship, of itself a holy tie

**Author's note:** Thank you again for your reviews! :D You may have noticed that I've decided to make Mac quite unlike the 'mellow Mac' of later series. In this story, he's younger and more single-minded - professionally in complete control, but perhaps a little less so personally.

So now you think I've stacked the odds unfairly against him, unarmed against four longshoremen? O ye of little faith! I'd say the odds were _just_ about even. I'd better warn you, though, in case you thought I was just kidding: things are about to get _very_ messy … :C

* * *

**Chapter 6 - Friendship, of itself a holy tie**

* * *

"_Friendship, of itself an holy tie,  
__Is made more sacred by adversity."  
_- John Dryden

The longshoreman pulled the cigarette from his lip and flicked it away with his fingertips. Then he began to advance slowly, one step at a time, holding the tire iron high. Smoke curled from his mouth into the empty sky above while the glowing embers died beneath his feet. Looking back into his eyes, Mac knew it'd be a mistake to retreat now. Instead he widened his stance and raised his hands, instinctively curling his fingers into fists. He stood his ground stubbornly, if only to deny the man the satisfaction of backing him into a corner.

The three other longshoremen fanned out behind the man's back, awaiting their turn. Given their choice of weapon, Mac realized that the lack of space between the containers might work to his advantage. If they could only attack him one at a time, he had a better chance of defending himself, as long as he remained on his feet. If he ended up on the ground at any point, however, it'd only take the four of them seconds to finish him off.

As a Marine he knew to keep his focus on the arm wielding the weapon, not the weapon itself. So when the longshoreman lunged at him, he stepped forward with his arms raised to block the hand swinging the tire iron. Pivoting around, he backed up against the man's chest and wrapped his arm around his shoulder, thereby trapping his forearm under his armpit. Then he grabbed the man's wrist and wrenched his thumb back to force him to drop his weapon. Yet despite crying out in agony, the longshoreman somehow managed to hold on.

So Mac turned to ram his elbow up into the man's chin instead, hammering his head against the corrugated steel behind him. For a second or two, the longshoreman teetered on his feet while he tried to maintain his balance. Mac swiftly seized his weapon and yanked it from his hand, before spinning around to face his next attacker.

When he glimpsed another tire iron hurtling down at him, he instinctively ducked and heard it crash into the head of the man behind him instead. He cringed to feel a spray of blood and bone spatter against the back of his neck. Then the injured man collapsed against his shoulders, pitching him into the arms of the other longshoreman in a deadly three-man embrace.

By dropping to his knees, Mac slid from their grasp and managed to swipe his weapon against their ankles with a dull thwack. As the men staggered backwards, he raised the tire iron over his head to fend off yet another crushing blow from above. He'd just clambered back onto his feet, when he was shoved roughly against a container and the tire iron flew from his fingers.

Dazed, he struggled against the burly arms now wrapped around his throat, choking him from behind. Another longshoreman held a tire iron up to his face, running its tip along his cheekbone with a smug smile. Mac waited for the man to swing the weapon back, ready to strike him, before delivering a swift back-kick to the man behind him. Then he bent down to throw his assailant over his shoulder into the path of the tire iron.

He drew a deep breath and was straightening his back, when the third longshoreman slammed into him and he tripped over the fourth man, stumbling backwards. Now he was down on his hands and knees again, scrambling for his weapon, when an unexpected kick knocked him flat onto his stomach.

Meanwhile Lévis-Lauzon was racing breathlessly around the wall of stacked containers, followed by a dozen security officers with their weapons drawn. After phoning the Sûreté for backup, he'd immediately radioed Port security to have the crane shut down, yet the damage had already been done, and he knew he had little chance of reaching the American in time. The crane could not be controlled remotely, and smaller cranes had to be mobilized to clear the containers in its place. By then, Mac had been left to fend for himself inside the steel labyrinth for nearly twenty minutes.

Now the noonday sun had climbed high enough to banish most of the shadows between the containers below. Although he knew to expect the worst, the Chief Inspector was still shocked by the sight that met him at the end of the alley. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw Mac hunched down low on his knees, his head bowed to the ground. Dark blood streaked his neck and had drenched his sleeves and the back of his shirt. Two longshoremen stood on either side of him, leaning casually against the containers.

"N'y pense même pas!" Lévis-Lauzon yelled to the closest man, whose eyes were fixed on the tire iron clutched in his hand. The man looked up dully as the Chief Inspector and the security officers approached him, their guns raised in a two-handed grip.

"Lâchez votre arme!"

The weapon slid from the longshoreman's fingers, his knees buckled, and then he fell on his face with a thud. An officer knelt down to check his pulse and glanced back at his colleagues with a shake of his head.

"Haut les mains!" the Chief Inspector shouted to the other man, who still hadn't moved. He shifted his aim and tightened his finger on the trigger. "Hands on your head! On. Your. Head. _Now_!"

He paused when he heard a gasp from the security officers. Then his eyes grew wide with the realization that the man he was addressing was no longer alive. Tilted back at an impossible angle, his head was wedged down firmly into the gap between the containers behind him. His hands dangled loosely at his side, and his body was arched backwards as if he were attempting to balance on the tips of his toes.

Lévis-Lauzon's threw a quick glance at the body of a third longshoreman, slumped against a container at the far end of the alley. He was sitting in a pool of blood with his chin resting down against his chest. Even at a distance, it was impossible to overlook the fact that the man's head had been split open.

Only now did the Chief Inspector realize that Mac was in fact kneeling on a fourth man, pulling a tire iron tightly against the man's throat. The American was heaving for air, and his face was flushed from the exertion of the fight. When he finally turned to look over his shoulder, Lévis-Lauzon saw that his eyes were completely blank.

"Drop it ... it's all right," the Chief Inspector instructed him quietly, as he edged closer to him. "It's over now … you can let go …"

It took Mac a moment to realize that Lévis-Lauzon was addressing him now. Slowly he unclenched his fists, letting the tire iron slip from his fingertips and clatter to the ground. Still short of breath, he paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the back of his blood-streaked hand. Then he removed his knee from the dead man's neck and climbed wearily to his feet.

"Mac, are you all right?" The Canadian quickly shoved his Glock back into his waistband.

Grabbing Mac's shoulders, he turned him around and looked him over with a frown of concern. Mac blinked back at him without answering, his breath still coming in short gasps. Blood glistened in his hair and down his neck, soaking the light-blue fabric of his shirt. He swayed a little unsteadily on his feet and Lévis-Lauzon quickly tightened his grasp.

"_Mon Dieu_," the Chief Inspector exclaimed in horror, "this is all my fault - I should've had your back!"

Mac shook his head and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm fine, really … none of _that_ … is mine." Then he bent down to place his hands on his knees. "Nothing … a shower … can't fix."

He stared at the ground between his feet, waiting for his racing heart to slow. "It's been … a while …"

"Oh, it has, has it now?" His hands on his hips, Lévis-Lauzon turned slowly to survey the carnage around them. He shook his head in slow disbelief. "What. A. Mess."

"Nothing … the NYPD … couldn't handle ..." Mac added breathlessly.

"Somehow I doubt we can credit the NYPD for this …"

Above Mac's head, the Chief Inspector exchanged disconcerted glances with the Port security officers. Despite his five years as the head of the Sûreté's _Groupe tactique d'intervention_, he hadn't seen anything quite like this since his army days. He frowned as he contemplated the implications of what'd just happened. Initially he'd been stunned by the audacity of the attack, but given the stakes involved, it wasn't all that surprising in hindsight. There was no question that they'd have to scale up their operation now.

Mac wiped his palms on his thighs and straightened his back. Looking up, he allowed himself a smug smile as he watched the operator being escorted down from the disabled crane.

Lévis-Lauzon pulled his phone from his pocket to check on the backup he'd requested from the Sûreté.

"Que faites-vous? Qu'est-ce qui prend autant de temps? Où sont mes renforts? Dépêchez-vous!"

With a wince, Mac stretched out his arm and peered over his shoulder at the torn fabric on the back of his sleeve. Then he began to run his hand along his waistband to tuck his shirttails back into his pants. He squatted down and turned over the dead man's wrist to show Lévis-Lauzon the tattoo beneath his watchband.

Glancing down, the Canadian found himself staring at the back of the American's head instead. His eyes narrowed when he spotted the little flecks that specked his matted hair.

"Attendez une seconde ..." He held his phone against his chest.

"In your hair there … is that … what I think it is?" A look of disgust crossed his face, only to be replaced by deep concern again. "You can't _possibly_ be okay! You need to be taken to hospital straight away."

They heard someone suddenly shout out, "Commandeur, nous sommes venus dès que nous le pouvions!"

The Chief Inspector was reassured to see twenty heavily armed Sûreté officers approaching them from the other end of the alley. Waving back to them, he signaled that they'd meet them halfway.

"No." Mac shook his head firmly as he stood up again. "I'm _fine_, really. My head's still intact, if that's what you mean. Trust me to notice if it wasn't." He pointed impatiently in the direction of the containership. "Let's just get a move on, shall we?"

Lévis-Lauzon reluctantly pushed his phone back into his pocket before they set off to meet the Sûreté officers. "All right, I'll take your word for it, but you're still leaving the Port. I can't let you stay. You're obviously not safe here."

"But –" Mac began to protest, but the Canadian held up a hand to stop him.

"These men will escort you back to the Sûreté." He glanced down at his watch. "I actually have a very busy day ahead of me, but I'll stay to supervise the rest of the operation on your behalf."

"No, no, no, you don't understand." Adrenalin was still coursing through Mac's veins, and he found it hard to contain himself. "You _have_ to let me finish what I came here for." He flung out his hand to point in the direction of _Pathfinder_. "C'mon, Patrick, we're so _close_ now. You can't just order me to leave!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't guarantee your safety here at the Port."

"What are you talking about? You don't _have_ to!" Mac pointed over his shoulder at the alley behind them. "In case you haven't noticed, I can actually take care of _myself_."

"Mac, you were _lucky_ to have survived those men. What if they'd been carrying guns?"

"Well, then just give _me_ a frickin' gun," he growled in exasperation, "so I can defend myself _properly_ …"

The Chief Inspector looked unhappy. "I can't do that. It's against protocol."

Mac wished he'd bitten his tongue right then, because he instantly regretted his next words.

"May I _remind_ you that the Sûreté doesn't actually have jurisdiction over _me, _Chief Inspector."

As the two men glared at each other, the Sûreté officers exchanged uncertain glances, wondering if it'd come to actual blows.

Lévis-Lauzon held a finger to his face. "May I _remind_ you that here in Canada you have no jurisdiction _whatsoever_, _Mr. Chairman._"

The Chief Inspector's sarcasm brought Mac back to his senses with the force of a roundhouse slap. His mouth went dry as he realized the enormity of his mistake. Since his arrival in Montreal, Lévis-Lauzon had gone out of his way in every respect to assist him in his search for the cocaine. He was indebted to this kind and good-natured man, and now he only had himself to thank for ruining whatever rapport they'd had, by pushing him too hard.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me …" He unclenched his hands and his shoulders slumped wearily in defeat. "It's your call, of course, Patrick," he sighed and turned toward the waiting Sûreté officers. "I'll leave, if you want me to ..."

Lévis-Lauzon's frown softened when he saw the American's obvious distress at what he'd said. "Mac, I'd have to be _insane_ to go on listening to you." He put his arm around the American's shoulder and told him earnestly, "Absolutely _no_ gun, okay? Am I completely clear on that?"

With a smile, Mac raised his hand to give him a two-fingered salute. "Yessir, loud and clear, Chief Inspector."

The Canadian rolled his eyes. "_Someone's_ got to keep you in line, Mr. Chairman. You seem awfully used to getting your way. Somehow you think the rules don't apply to you."

Mac sighed. "There you go again, sounding just like my wife ..."

"Sounds like you married the right woman, then." Lévis-Lauzon looked pleased. "Send her my sympathies, will you? She's obviously got her work cut out for her."

"She'll be _thrilled_ to hear you said that …" Mac grumbled, his hands now deep in his pockets. "I'll never hear the end of it …"

Together, they assembled the Sûreté and security officers for a situation update while they waited for a replacement operator for the idle crane. The Harbormaster had sent all the reinforcements he could, and a Sûreté van arrived with a dozen drug-sniffing dogs and their handlers. With well over one hundred men involved in the operation now, Mac was annoyed that nearly a dozen had been assigned to guarding _him_, making it as good as impossible for him to take an active part, yet he very wisely held his tongue.

Everyone worked hard on the cumbersome task of opening, checking and resealing _Pathfinder's_ containers, before they could be cleared for customs and onward transport. As the afternoon wore on without success, frustration began to mount for everyone involved, but none more so than Mac. His mood steadily darkened until the very last container had been checked and cleared, two hours later.

Since no one else dared to approach the American, Lévis-Lauzon became the designated bearer of bad news.

"I'm so sorry, Mac. The containers have now all been checked and rechecked. Beyond any doubt, the cocaine was not onboard _Pathfinder_."

Mac ran his hand down his face, trying to take in the disappointing news.

"I don't _believe_ this …" He ignored the many faces staring at him and slammed his open hand against a container door.

"Goddamn it!"

Years ago, the Corps had taught him to reign in his anger, and he rarely allowed his temper to flare any longer. Yet he'd never learned to handle his frustration very well. Raising his hands to cover his face for a moment, he was thankful that Stella and Don couldn't see him right now. He was unable to recall ever before in his career having wasted so many people's time on what had turned out to be a wild-goose chase. His heart sank at the thought that he'd burdened Stella for no reason, leaving her in charge of the Crime Lab at a time when she really needed him at her side.

"How the hell could I've been so _wrong_?"

He slumped against a container with his arms crossed against his chest, his sigh heavy with disappointment. Yet despite backtracking through all of the individual steps, he couldn't find any obvious flaw in his reasoning. The cocaine _had_ to have been onboard _Pathfinder_, destined for Montreal. He stomped his foot against the corrugated steel behind him.

"Damn it!"

Watching him with sympathy, the Chief Inspector decided it was time to intervene before the detective ended up actually injuring himself. At that moment, he'd suddenly understood what fuelled the American's relentless drive, evident since their very first meeting at the airport. _Pride_. The man had been much more shaken by the thought that he could've been _wrong_, than by the brutal attempt on his life.

"You might've been wrong about _Pathfinder_," Lévis-Lauzon suggested quietly, "but I don't think you were wrong about the cocaine. I mean, why else would these men have bothered to try to kill you? If you're still certain that the shipment is destined for Montreal, you're welcome to join me tomorrow. There's another possible route, you see."

Mac glanced unenthusiastically up at him. "Why, what's tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is _Opération Loquace."_

"_Opération Loquace_?" Mac shook his head with a frown. "Never heard of it."

Lévis-Lauzon looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a bare whisper. "This is strictly confidential. It's a nationwide drug raid that the Sûreté has been planning for months. My team has been assigned to serve a high-risk warrant to a farm on Cornwall Island, in the Akwesasne Mohawk reserve. That's a two-hour drive up the St. Lawrence from here. If the cocaine you're looking for is being brought here overland from New York, _that's _where it'll be."

Mac uncrossed his arms and began to take an interest. The Mohawk reserve spanned both sides of the St. Lawrence, and tribal members had been granted the right to travel freely across the international border. Border patrols were light, if not nonexistent, making the reserve a popular transit destination for drug trafficking between Canada and the US.

"Maybe you're right ..."

"Look, the Sûreté is _very_ sensitive about outside participation, _especially_ from the United States. So I can only invite you along as an unofficial, unarmed observer. We don't have time for any kind of official paperwork."

Mac nodded. "I'm fine with that."

"We're twelve in the GTI team. You're not a superstitious man, are you?"

Smiling weakly, Mac briefly allowed his exhaustion to show. "Well, of course not, Patrick. I'm a _scientist_ …"

Lévis-Lauzon looked at him with concern once again. "There's a major drawback, though. It's _dawn_ raid. We start at 0400 hours. You wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight."

Mac immediately straightened his back from his dejected slouch. "No problem. I can manage fine."

"You know what?" the Chief Inspector suddenly suggested brightly. "Let's save some tax dollars. Why don't we check you out of your hotel and put you up at my house instead? I live upriver from here. That'd buy you a few extra hours of sleep tonight."

Mac held up his hands to politely decline the offer. "That's very kind of you, but I couldn't possibly put you and your wife out."

"It's no problem at all. In fact, I _insist_. C'mon, let's go and get you cleaned up first."

Together they returned to the Chief Inspector's car and drove back to Mac's hotel on the Old Port waterfront. To avoid leaving stains in the car, Mac slipped on his jacket and turned its collar up high before getting into the passenger seat. Yet he still managed to attract some open-mouthed stares, walking through the lobby when they arrived at the _Auberge du Vieux-Port_.

Now it was Lévis-Lauzon's turn to glance around self-consciously when his American visitor stopped at the front desk to request room-service delivery of a bottle of 190-proof alcohol. After a moment's thought, he asked for housekeeping to send up a roll of extra heavy-duty trash bags, rubber gloves, a gallon of Clorox and a Lysol spray, as well.

"Sheesh, you sound like you're about to dismember a body," the Chief Inspector remarked in the elevator, leaning back with folded arms. "May I remind you that your room is booked on our Sûreté account."

"Don't worry." Mac grinned at him. "I won't leave a trace."

The Canadian shook his head with a smile. "Somehow, I knew you'd say that ..." Then he held up a warning finger again. "Your head better still be intact, okay?"

While Mac showered and changed his clothes, Lévis-Lauzon pulled a chair up to the open French windows and sat gazing at the sunny harbor front, his feet resting on the bannister. Cruise ship passengers were still milling around the picturesque piers, taking photographs of each other and buying trinkets and souvenirs.

Half an hour later, Mac emerged barefoot from the bathroom, a full trash bag and an empty bottle of Everclear in his hands. Now he had a towel draped around his neck and was wearing the T-shirt he'd used for his late-night run. He examined his fingernails critically for a moment before sniffing them very cautiously, which instantly made his eyes water.

"I don't think I've ever been this squeaky clean in my _life_ …" He grimaced, holding the back of his wrist against his stinging eyes.

Then he picked up his watch and realized how long he'd kept the Chief Inspector waiting.

"That was actually pretty yucky …" he explained vaguely, pointing to the back of his head.

"Yucky, huh?" Lévis-Lauzon laughed. It didn't sound like a word the Head Supervisor of the Crime Lab would often use. "Oh really? _Now_ you noticed?"

Mac held up the trash bag, in which he'd bundled his clothes and the rest of the towels inside several additional bags. "This should really be incinerated."

The Canadian nodded grimly. "We'll take it with us to the Sûreté. Someone there'll know what to do," he suggested, before adding, "Assuming my GTI team doesn't tackle us down in the lobby first, of course ..."

Mac smiled back at him without replying. He appreciated the Chief Inspector's quiet humor and was immensely grateful that the Canadian was such a forgiving man.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Brains on the _inside_, where they belong." Mac tapped his temple, then began briskly toweling his hair. "Like I said, nothing a shower couldn't fix." He paused and pointed to the faded old T-shirt he was now wearing. "I seem to have run out of clean shirts, though."

"What, not even a scratch? _C'est incroyable_." Lévis-Lauzon frowned skeptically. "You know, I'm not really sure I believe you."

"It's true." Mac raised his hands and turned around to demonstrate. "Not even a scratch."

The Chief Inspector nodded, noting that the American obviously was exceptionally fit for a man his age. It wasn't all that surprising, really, given that he'd been able to take down four armed men after running all the way to the top of the crane with him.

The Canadian pointed to the ceiling. "Someone up there must be watching over you."

Mac nodded. "Apparently so."

"Do you have _any_ idea what my Director General would have done to me, if I'd allowed the HIDTA Chairman to get killed?"

Mac rolled his eyes. "Hmm, right, let's not forget about _him_, shall we …"

"I just spoke to my wife." The Chief Inspector tapped his cell phone before slipping it back into his pocket. "She's at work right now, but she asked me to invite you to have dinner with us tonight."

He saw the American bite his lower lip, suddenly looking embarrassed.

"What's the matter?"

Mac pointed to his well-worn T-shirt and made a face. "I'm a little underdressed for dinner with your wife, don't you think?"

Lévis-Lauzon laughed at his sudden discomfort. "Somehow I don't think she'll mind seeing you in a T-shirt," he added with a smirk.

Puzzled, Mac opened his mouth to ask what he'd meant, but then decided against it. The Canadian chuckled to see his cheeks color before he turned to return the towel to the bathroom.

"In fact …" he added casually behind his back, "if you'd been injured, she'd be undressing you right now, as we speak. Stripping you naked, most likely."

Mac froze before turning around slowly, looking aghast. "I … I beg your pardon?" His flush deepened as he recalled the beautiful blonde woman in the photograph on the Chief Inspector's desk. "Why on earth … would she want to do that?"

"She's chief trauma nurse at McGill University hospital. She's on shift in the ER right now."

Mac glanced down at his faded T-shirt with a reluctant smile. "So you're telling me that I could've made an even _worse_ first impression on her?"

Lévis-Lauzon smiled back at him without replying. He was pleased that his American visitor had turned out to be nothing _whatsoever_ like the man he'd expected to meet at Montréal-Trudeau, two days earlier.

They threw the garbage bag and Mac's duffel bag into the trunk and returned to the Sûreté headquarters. The Chief Inspector left Mac waiting in his office while he attended an hour-long senior management meeting. When he returned, he discovered that Mac had left word his with secretary that he'd be down on the 12th floor. He found his American visitor in the _Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires_ looking quite comfortable with a lab coat over his T-shirt while he watched a demonstration of the Sûreté's brand-new eDNA sampling library with great interest.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the Sûreté operations room together, planning the last details of the raid on the Cornwell Island farm. Though he didn't understand a word of what was said, Mac was present while Lévis-Lauzon briefed his GTI team. Afterwards, he was issued the same clothing and equipment as the rest of the Chief Inspector's men, with the exception of a weapon.

When they were done, they drove to Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue, an attractive little riverside town on the western tip of the island of Montreal. As they approached the Lévis-Lauzons' house on Rue Lakeshore, they drove past a leafy parkland university campus with a bird observatory and a historic old music conservatory.

The early evening was warm and wind still, and the setting sun bathed the quiet neighborhood in a soft, orange glow. On the waterfront, local residents were either mooring their sailboats for the night or taking a leisurely stroll along the canal towpath. Here, the mirror-calm water was like a sheet of glass, disturbed only by little ripples in the wake of a lone duck, paddling alongside the riverbank.

As dusk began to fall, they were seated around the dining table, enjoying little _mignardises_ with their coffee, after a delicious dinner served by Mme. Lévis-Lauzon. The two boys, bored with the adult conversation, were drinking chocolate milk and watching television in the living room. Although it was a school night, they'd been allowed to stay up late to watch the spectacular _Feux Loto-Quebec_ summer fireworks display over the city.

At home with his family, the Chief Inspector was in a relaxed mood, comfortable enough to share one of his favorite jokes with Mac.

"… and once again the Americans tell the Canadians, '_You_ should change _your_ course fifteen degrees north to avoid collision.'"

Mme. Lévis-Lauzon cringed inwardly as she listened to her husband tell his well-worn anecdote to their American guest. If they hadn't been seated at opposite ends of the dining table, she'd most probably have had to resist the urge to kick him under the table. Yet she was intrigued to see the detective following the story with a smile, apparently willing to suspend his better judgment for the sake of his host.

"To which the Canadians again reply, 'No, _you_ should change _your_ course fifteen degrees north to avoid collision.'"

Though the Chief Inspector was much more outgoing than his wife, he'd always insisted on keeping his job strictly separate from his family. Rarely - if ever – had he invited his colleagues home for dinner. So Mme. Lévis-Lauzon had been astounded when he'd suddenly suggested inviting a fellow police officer to stay the night, and an _American_ at that.

As always, her husband did most of the talking at the table, yet despite his reticence their guest seemed to have an observant eye. Watching him now, she found herself wondering if he was in any way aware of the special honor her husband had bestowed on him.

"So by now the Americans are _furious_, of course," the Chief Inspector continued, oblivious to his wife's discomfort, ''and they tell the Canadians, 'This is the second largest ship in the US Atlantic fleet. We're accompanied by three destroyers, a helicopter carrier and a supply ship. This is your _final_ warning. _You _must change _your_ course fifteen degrees north. Otherwise counter-measures will be taken to ensure the safety of our ship.'"

Having gotten to his favorite part, Lévis-Lauzon paused to chuckle to himself before delivering the punchline.

"After a moment's silence, the Canadians reply, 'This is actually a _lighthouse_, but we'll let it be your call.'"

Listening to the Chief Inspector's guffaw at his own joke, Mac couldn't help but break into laughter himself. He realized that it was Lévis-Lauzon's _family_ that kept the man on such an even keel, despite the obvious stress and perils of his job. It was the love of his wife - and the innocence of his children - that together were the key to the Chief Inspector's happiness.

Inevitably his thoughts drifted back to Claire, who'd always managed to keep him grounded no matter what happened, and he was reminded of the unfathomable depth of his own loneliness afterwards. Somehow he'd lost his way after she died, forgetting all of the simplest things in life, like how to enjoy a day off, how to make friends, how to get a good night's sleep. On countless nights he'd woken up bathed in a cold sweat, convinced that he'd suddenly forgotten how to breathe, as well. As he listened to the boys noisily slurp their chocolate milk, he felt a surge of regret that he'd waited so long before letting anyone back into his life.

They cleared the table together and while the boys helped their mother in the kitchen, Lévis-Lauzon and Mac wandered back into the living room. As they sat down across from each other, the Chief Inspector finally put a question to Mac that he'd wanted to ask ever since they'd first met at the airport.

"Forgive me, I know it's really none of my business. But how did _you_ end up becoming HIDTA chairman? From what I've read, you don't really fit the profile."

"That's a very good question, my friend. I'll take it as a compliment." Mac gave him a wry smile. "Let's just say I was out-maneuvered by my enemies. _Political_ enemies. The Chief of Detectives is one of them. We weren't on speaking terms at the time – and still aren't."

Lévis-Lauzon frowned in confusion. "But I don't understand. I thought the man _nominated_ you for the job. The two of you are always on the news together."

Mac nodded, a pained expression on his face.

"A few months ago - before the Lab was attacked - Sinclair and his Deputy tried their damnedest to get me fired. When he didn't succeed, Sinclair nominated me for HIDTA instead, purely out of _spite_. He thought he was setting me up to fail. He was sure I couldn't handle all the paperwork." He shrugged his shoulders. "To be honest, it's not really my strongest suit."

"How on earth did you become appointed chairman without wanting to?"

"False rumors were spread about my interest in the HIDTA position, which I never bothered to deny. At the time, I was too busy rebuilding the Lab and thought it beneath me to play their little games. Well, as it turns out, I was wrong. My wife kept trying to warn me, but I wouldn't listen to her. Before I realized what they were up to, it was too late."

"But that's just outrageous! That's _not_ how we do things here in Montreal."

"Well, I should hope not, Patrick." He shook his head with a weak smile. "I'd like to think that it's _not_ how we do things in New York, either ..."

He pointed to a small, white scar on the back of his hand. "See this? I did this when I heard what they'd done to me."

Lévis-Lauzon's jaw dropped. "You _punched out_ the Chief of Detectives? Are you _serious_?"

Mac laughed. "Well, what I did was dumb, but not _that_ dumb."

"With enemies like that, who needs friends, huh?"

"Now I'm stuck with a full-time _and_ a part-time job. Although it's well paid, the HIDTA position doesn't carry any actual power, but few people seem to realize that. One day a week, I find myself chairing meetings, shaking hands, making presentations, collating reports. Sinclair is trying to wear me out. He's hoping I'll quit my day job at the Crime Lab."

"Couldn't you have turned down the HIDTA chairmanship instead?"

"It's a _presidential_ appointment, Patrick." Mac sighed. "I'll just have to sit out my term. It's two years. Two _very_ long years."

"So how do you manage?"

"My wife and I … well, we have plans. We're trying to make this work to our advantage."

The Chief Inspector smiled sympathetically. The two days he'd spent in the company of his American visitor had left him in absolutely no doubt what those plans involved.

"On the upside," Mac continued, "the job's given me unlimited access to highly classified information. That's how I was able to trace the cocaine to Montreal." He frowned, looking troubled. "Or at least, so I thought ..."

Lévis-Lauzon reached across the table to pat his shoulder. "Hey, don't worry, Mac. I'm convinced we'll find it in Akwesasne tomorrow."

While the Chief Inspector left to help his wife to make up the guestroom, Mac remained seated on the sofa. For a moment he closed his eyes and rubbed his face wearily, grateful to be only a few steps away from his bed for the night. Hearing a noise, he opened his eyes in time to see the two boys pouring several hundred NHL trading cards onto his lap.

They looked expectantly at him. "Which players do _you_ like best, Detective Taylor?"

He smiled back at them, trying very hard to tell the two of them apart. "You can call me Mac, boys," he replied gently.

When he picked up a handful of cards, he was immediately confronted with the depth of his own ignorance. Looking into their eyes, he realized he couldn't possibly admit to them that all hockey players looked alike to him. Instead, he held up the cards one at a time, angling them against the light to see which ones were the most well-thumbed with slightly frayed edges.

"This one … and … _this_ one … this one … and then, of course, _this_ one."

He lined up his choices confidently along the edge of the coffee table.

The boys gasped out loud and exchanged incredulous glances.

"Wow! Those are _our_ favorite players_, _too! You sure know a lot about hockey for an American!"

Mac hesitated, uncertain whether to accept their admiration, since it was grounded in his deception._ Was cheating allowed? _

Glancing up, he noticed Lévis-Lauzon watching him from the doorway. When their eyes met, the Canadian nodded. _Yes, cheating is allowed._

So he permitted himself another smug smile. Maybe this wasn't going to be as hard as he'd thought. Maybe he just needed to stop worrying about it.

"Well, thank you. Enough to know that _you're_ the real experts around here."

The Chief Inspector had been pleased to see his two shy boys practicing their English with their American guest. He could tell that Mac's presence had intrigued them, and they'd used their trading cards as an excuse to get to know him better. He'd grinned when he'd caught on to what Mac was doing with the cards, charmed equally by Mac's ingenuity and his sons' gullibility.

"Il semble très agréable, Patrick," his wife whispered to him as she slipped her hand around his waist.

He nodded and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"Un peu timide, peut-être?" she added hesitantly, resting her head against his chest.

"C'est peut-être quelque chose que j'ai dit," he replied with a wide grin before turning serious again. "Il a tué quatre hommes sur les quais aujourd'hui."

"Ah!" she gasped, cupping her hand over her mouth in shock. "Je n'aurais jamais deviné."

They left to finish the dishes and returned a half hour later to find the living room empty and the patio door wide open, though the fireworks weren't scheduled to start for another hour. The boys' cards were stacked up neatly in alphabetical order on the coffee table, something they'd never seen their sons do before.

"Patrick?" Mme. Lévis-Lauzon turned anxiously to his husband. "Où sont les garcons?"

During his career, the Chief Inspector had dealt with many abductions – even a few involving children - and his instincts as a police officer immediately kicked into high alert. With his finger raised to his lips, he immediately moved to switch off the living room lights. Then he quickly unlocked his safe in order to retrieve his gun, before quietly leaving the house via the patio door. To his utter shame, the realization crossed his mind that he'd left his sons in the care of a man he'd only met yesterday, a man who – unarmed - had been capable of killing four men.

Outside in the garden, crickets chirped incessantly all around him and at first he couldn't see anything at all in the inky darkness. He sidled silently across the patio and onto the lawn with his Glock drawn, while he let his eyes slowly adjust to the dark. Up ahead, he could just glimpse the outline of Mac kneeling on the grass with his two sons standing on either side of him. Gradually it dawned on him that Mac was adjusting the height of the telescope that he himself had given them for their birthday, but which he'd had never had the time to set up for them.

Lévis-Lauzon could tell that Mac had heard him approaching them stealthily from behind. Yet the American merely tilted his head slightly, keeping his full attention on the two boys instead. The Canadian quickly flicked the safety back on and slipped his gun into his waistband behind his back, so as not to alarm his sons.

"The most important constellation, huh?" Mac was asking himself, obviously prompted by the boys. He gave the question a moment's serious thought. Then he rose to his feet and pointed to four stars set in a tight square near the eastern horizon.

"Well, I guess that would have to be Hercules. Over there."

"Hercules?" The boys wrinkled their noses, unimpressed by his choice. "But _why_?"

"Because many of the other constellations you see here in the sky - the lion, the hydra, the crab, and the dragon – they were all slain by Hercules." He pointed out each star cluster individually, before making a wide, sweeping motion with his hand. "If it hadn't been for Hercules, this whole part of the sky would've been _empty_, right?"

After a moment's thought, both boys nodded in serious agreement, making him grin.

"But what's a … _hydra_?" The question was inevitable.

"It's a giant sea serpent. Every time you cut off its head, two more grow out. I believe your father knows all about that." Mac turned to give the Chief Inspector a wink and a wry smile. "He battles a kind of hydra every day. I'll be joining him tomorrow to find its lair."

One of the boys covered his mouth and sniggered. "Papa should wear a lion skin to work."

"But I can't see it," the other boy complained, straining even harder to look.

"Right over there. See."

Mac squatted down to line up his sight exactly with the boy's, before patiently connecting the long, zigzag line of faint stars for him with his fingertip.

"The hydra is the _oldest_ and the _largest_ constellation in the sky," he explained to him. "It takes more than _six_ hours for it to rise above the horizon. Yet most people don't even realize it's there."

"Oh! Now I see it!" The boy turned around and yelped to discover his father standing right behind them. "Come and see the hydra, Papa! Mac will show it to you!"

The two men smiled at each other when their eyes met in the dark.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

Now - nearly eight hours later - Mac and Lévis-Lauzon were standing at the edge of the woods, watching the GTI team descend through the cornrows towards the farmhouse down below. The sun had risen, radiant and bright, on the eastern horizon, turning the St. Lawrence into a oozing flow of molten gold behind the farm.

Mac lowered the binoculars and handed them back to the Chief Inspector.

"I just hope I'm not wrong _again_." He bit his lower lip. "I really don't have time to be chasing that damned cocaine all over Canada."

"Don't worry, it's down at the farm, all right," Lévis-Lauzon reassured him, raising the binoculars to his eyes. "I'm sure of it."

While he waited, Mac's eyes kept being drawn back to the St. Lawrence. No one else around him seemed to take notice, but to him the river seemed to shift and change every time he looked at it. This time, brilliant sunlight was dancing on its sparkling surface, setting its water ablaze in a dazzling burst of light. Squinting painfully, he fished his sunglasses out of his Kevlar pocket, flicked them open and pushed them onto his nose. Now he could see all of the thousands of pinpoints of sunlight reflected in the water, flashing and glinting in time with each gentle little ripple on the river.

"Where's your man guarding the Zodiac?" he suddenly asked, feeling what Stella called his spidey senses tingling.

_Something was wrong._

The Chief Inspector frowned. "He must be behind the barn. I saw him just a moment ago."

Without taking his eyes off the water, Mac pulled off his sunglasses and reached behind him for the binoculars. A little glint of red light near the riverbank seemed to be moving in a different direction than the rest of the sparkles, _against_ the current. Glancing down, he suddenly spotted a bright red pinpoint of light jiggle across his chest like a tiny winged insect. He'd just opened his mouth to warn the Chief Inspector, when two rapid rifle rounds cracked the air and echoed across the hillside. Both men were instantly thrown off their feet by the high-caliber impact.

Lévis-Lauzon landed on his back with a heavy thud, his arms flung wide in the tall grass. Mac collided with the tree right behind him, slamming his head against its trunk and knocking the breath from his lungs. He grimaced as an agonizing jolt of pain radiated from his shoulder right down into his fingertips. His knees buckled under him, and he slid slowly down the bark before tumbling into the grass beside the Chief Inspector. He blinked a few times, trying to stop his vision from blurring, before the encroaching darkness claimed him.

Behind the unconscious American's back, the Canadian clasped his hands to his throat, gurgling blood as he fought for every last gasp of air.

* * *

**Chapter 7 – Any man's death diminishes me**

Mac hasn't learned his lesson yet

* * *

What. A. Mess. Well, I _did_ try to warn you ...

This chapter completes the first cycle in the plot – the one that began on the hillside in chapter 2. Now we move on to complete the second cycle – the one that began with the Prologue, when Mac and his team meet the _Sandman_.

I'll be stepping up the action in the next two chapters – there are a few more people Mac needs to meet, before he can go back home. I can already reveal to you that the cocaine _is_ down at the farm – but it comes at a very heavy price. What price? Well, I've actually already told you (hint: the first few words of chapter 2) :C

I hope the story is making much more sense now. Please let me know how I'm doing so far - and whether you're interested in more chapters … I do so love hearing from you! ;D


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